


Softly Sinister Slytherin

by RiddellLee



Series: Softly Sinister Slytherin [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, America, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Competent Quirrell, Dark Magic, Druids, Female Harry Potter, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fix-It, Gen, Harry Potter is in America now, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Just forget everything you think you know, Magical Realism, No Wands, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Original Universe, Philosophy, Possible Character Death, Rating May Change, Realistic, Slytherin Politics, Warnings May Change, major plot changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-07-28 02:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20056543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddellLee/pseuds/RiddellLee
Summary: Holly Potter is smart, cunning, careful, and only willing to tolerate so much. The world has not been kind to her, and she eventually decides that instead of cowering she's going to grow teeth. She has a right to this world—and no one can take that away from her.A retelling of the Harry Potter series.





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Fem!Slytherin!Potter story of sorts. I have changed near about every aspect of the original books, fixing plot inconsistencies and have attempted to make the story more grounded in modern society. I have also transplanted Hogwarts to the American Pacific Northwest. The first few years are gen, but romance will develop where it wants to. I will be tackling a lot of very controversial and difficult topics including, abuse, religion, American politics, racism, and sexism among others. Chapters will have trigger warnings where applicable, and I'll be updating the tags as I go. 
> 
> I've given up trying to control my muse, it goes where it wants to. And I haven't been inspired like this in a long time. I just ask that you come into this with an open mind. I've changed a lot. Check out my profile for links to my Discord and Twitter account.

On October 31, 2001, a green flash erupted through the night deep within the Umatilla National Forest, near a place called Godric's Hollow, and Lord Voldemort created the Girl Who Lived. It was a Wednesday. She was sent to live with her only remaining relatives, the Dursleys in Yakima. But the Dursleys were a traditional Christian conservative family who went to church every Sunday and were staunchly against _wickedness_ and, most importantly, magick. Just a few weeks before she arrived in their house, Al-Qaeda Suicide Bombers destroyed the Trade Center in New York.

And they took it as a Bad Omen.

Petunia and Vernon discussed in hushed tones what they were to do. This child could be the anti-Christ, could be evil, and could do (possibly) terrible things—should they _kill_ the child? They were God-fearing people. The Bible said to smite the evil thing—but they also believed in redemption, that drinking the water of Christ would cleanse you of your sins. It became clear to them that it was their duty to guide this dark child to the ways of the light.

“And anyway,” said Uncle Vernon with a huff, “the Bible says the Anti-Christ _is_ coming, so we can’t exactly stop it, now can we? We best get on with it!”

They would later claim that they were _so_ against abortion that they couldn’t very well justify killing a child before they had tried everything to show them the light. Heaven forbid they be hypocrites in the pro-life argument.

“Innocent until proven guilty and all that,” Aunt Petunia said, lifting her head as she shrugged—_I mean, that’s what we’ve all agreed is just and fair, no?_

The two of them had made a decision. They would raise the girl away from all that magical nonsense and save her soul, no matter what anyone said. But she was a curious creature and neither Petunia nor Vernon knew how to raise such a little girl. No matter how much they tried to stop her, she always wanted to know _why_.

They ended up banning questions altogether. They didn't know why either, so why should she? But no matter what they did, her _otherness_ shone in all directions. And things would happen! At the end of her rope, Petunia began to ask various church leaders about her fears and what she should do, eventually leading her to a Catholic Exorcist.

He assured the Dursleys that the girl was too young to remember any of this. Allow her to recover, and be vigilant to punish even the smallest mention of magick from her lips. And so the Dursleys did their best, but what was a soft reprimand turned into a stern reminder, to a shout, to a slap across the face. That one shut her up.

But still, strange things would happen.

She claimed not to know anything about them. She "didn't do it." Never once did they consider that a four-year-old would have trouble understanding what they meant.

It was a relief when they couldn't find her one day. By the next morning, they started to worry. That evening, they tore through the house and found her cowering in the cupboard under the stairs. Vernon had roared that if that's where she wanted to stay, fine by him, and he cleaned it out—threw a small mattress and some blankets and shut her back in. It wasn't until she was sent to her cupboard as a punishment that he put the lock on her door.

And from there, things settled into a predictable routine. Petunia would rouse the girl to help prepare breakfast for the day like a good housewife was expected to do. Petunia sternly kept the girl at her side, forcing her to shadow and assist in all her responsibilities. She was sent to school to learn and told that she should try to do decent enough to get into college so that she could have a fallback plan in case her husband died.

They told her that her parents had died in a car accident. God had taken them away because they were wicked. They told her to obey God's law or she was doomed to eternal damnation. She learned to keep her doubt to herself, lest she faced her Uncle's ire.

And so it was, that Holly Jamie Potter came to know nothing about the truth of her birth and to fear magick.


	2. The Girl and the Snake

Holly Potter listened to the heartbeat of the house.

She listened to the soft vibrato that traveled through floorboards and into sheetrock, the echo of voices that blended into footsteps and swelled into a pulsing, living thing. She clung to that sound, alone in the dark. She had nothing else, except the shadow puppet show beneath the crack in her door, the kaleidoscope of color behind her eyes.

She had feared it once. It meant hunger, isolation, holding it or ruining her bed, it meant the closest thing to abandonment the Dursleys were able to do. But it also meant escape. Safety, away from the cruel eyes and snide remarks, the hands that flew and left bruises in their wake.

Holly closed her eyes. She knew Aunt Petunia stood in Dudley’s bedroom. She could hear the pleading croon of her voice as she begged him to turn off the computer and get into bed. She could feel the weight of Uncle Vernon in the living room, the dull chatter of the evening news report dissipating into the air like static. Then, one by one, the sounds morphed and faded. Dudley turned off the computer, Aunt Petunia turned down the sheets and Uncle Vernon shut off the TV. She heard every one of his heavy steps resound in her tiny space as he went up the stairs, every part of her listening for the moment he crawled into bed. She listened until she heard the sound of his rumbling snores—distant like a rolling thundercloud.

And finally, she could relax. Her breathing evened out, her eyelids smoothed and though hunger clawed at her belly she told herself _maybe tomorrow._ Her mind drifted to the reason for her incarceration, the trip to the zoo and the boa constrictor. None of it made sense. _It was magic_, she told herself—wanting, needing to believe. The glass had _magically_ disappeared. How else to explain the sudden vanishing act?

_Holly was talking to it, weren’t you Holly?_

Her jaw clenched, balling blankets in her fists until her knuckles bleached. She hadn't known Pierce had watched her. That small sentence uttered during the tense drive home—she blamed those words for her current predicament more than the missing glass. After all, how could the Dursleys hold her responsible? She hadn't yanked the windowpane out of the terrarium and tossed it in the trash when no one was looking. She had _blinked_, and it was gone. But speaking to a snake? What manner of devilish unnaturalness was that!

She hadn’t told anyone how it spoke back to her.

_Maybe that’s what happened to Eve_, she mused, rolling over in bed and pulling the torn blanket tighter about her shoulders. She knew the story—the Dursleys dragged her to church on Sundays.

“You’ll get a proper Christian education,” Uncle Vernon had snarled; defiant to some power pulling strings behind the scenes.

In the Garden of Eden, humanity could partake of any of the fruits of the trees _except_ from the Tree of Knowledge. Eve stumbled upon the tree one day and found a serpent suspended in the branches. Maybe it told her how much it would like to see the world—maybe it told her what power knowledge possessed.

Holly rolled over. Maybe she should have asked the boa constrictor, what fruit of knowledge would _she_ need to partake to learn the truth?


	3. Hogwarts A [Brief] History

Let’s say you wanted to enroll your kid at Hogwarts, how would you do it?

Minerva McGonagall received a handful of letters every year from graduated students, concerned parents, and secretive children posing the question. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had operated as an independent entity for over two hundred years, the Headmaster an elected president or tyrannical dictator depending on who filled the seat. But times changed, society blossomed, and Ministry oversight became a _thing_.

They say Hogsmeade was there first.

Any local can tell you the story, about the young druid who set sail with Francis Drake in 1579 and watched as he staked a claim upon the Pacific Northwest in the name of King and Country—the New Albion. Jonathon Hogsmeade had seen the new land, unsoiled by Christian hands and wept for what could be. He returned to England, collected his family, and became the first group to travel the Atlantic by the Woods[1]. The mayor’s home is built upon the bones of his first homestead in the Cascade Mountains.

After that, no one’s quite sure what happened until a group of renegade druids abandoned the coalmines and hatched the idea of building a school in 1805. The _West_ was a place to start over, to break dirt and build something from nothing. Hogsmeade was the first entirely wizarding settlement in the region and that made it the perfect place. Unlike the East Coast, the West didn’t have the Druidic Elders looking over their shoulder—muggle and magical law hadn’t made it out that far. So there wasn’t anyone to stop them from forming their own government.

These days the Ministry of Magicks encompasses the magical state of Cascadia. Their headquarters are based in the old Seattle underground, abandoned and neatly buried by the muggles. No one calls Hogwarts the Ministry of Books, but that’s what it is. The Headmaster takes one of the three seats of authority and is the voice for all matters of knowledge and learning. The Ministry of Secrets[2] takes the final seat as the smallest entity of the government. They have an office in Kodiak.

So, _want to be a student at Hogwarts?_

Simple. Live within the boundaries of Cascadia and be a member of the magical world. The Ministry of Magick operates as efficiently as any local government. Keep the mailing address that’s on file up to date and just wait for the owl—you already paid for it in taxes. Ah, but what about those rare few with non-magick parents?

Well, there isn’t a singular spell that detects the use of magick. Back in the day, it was up to rumors and old-fashioned detective work. Muggleborn students were few and far in between, and always controversial. Then, the practice of employing a verified seer came into practice in the 1980s. Originally headed by the Department of Mysteries, a seer—whose identity remains undisclosed by order of the Ministry—was tasked with finding the names of orphaned witches and wizards. By happy happenstance, they were also able to find muggleborns this way, and the ongoing Muggleborn Debate was born.

As Deputy Headmistress, Minerva preferred to introduce new muggleborns personally. Parents seemed to take it better after she transformed into a tabby cat in their living room. While she signed each letter, the quill dancing before her in a flowing emerald green script, a second quill copied out addresses of its own accord. She knew of two muggleborns this year so far — she had set aside the envelopes to Miss H Granger and Mr. J Finch-Fletchley for personal delivery.

She knew many of these surnames, rising like ghosts from the sea. They drew from her the savage wrecks of time, the coffins a decade buried. Did they know the weight of their names? Her hand hesitated as she finished signing a letter and glanced at the name. It struck her like a whisper on the wind. Miss H Potter, the Girl Who Lived.

Ten years ago she survived a curse no one else had. While muggles argued over liquid gold buried in desert sands, the magical world fought a war of ideologies. The Muggleborn Debate. And the loudest voice in opposition belonged to Tom Riddle and to the nationalist group he inspired, the self-proclaimed Death Eaters and the monster that led them—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, a necromancer who boasted he had conquered death. Lily and James Potter were vocal activists in support of muggleborn rights, Lily herself a muggleborn discovered by the Prince family. James leveraged his pureblood status to provide credibility. Muggleborns had a right to Hogwarts too, they explained to anyone who would listen. A proposition got drafted. Someone snitched. And He-Who-Must-Be-Named hit the Potter residence personally. He murdered his political opposition, but when he turned his wand on their child—the curse rebounded and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named vanished. Tom Riddle never came back to the Ministry and folks put two and two together.

Holly Potter was the Girl Who Lived.

Minerva hardly glanced at the envelope as it sealed itself and floated over to the pile awaiting a trip to the Owlery. Miss Potter had been registered from birth to attend Hogwarts; her movements kept under careful observation. You might call it Witness Protection; after all, the Death Eaters would just love a chance alone with her, though in recent years they had faded from the media. Minerva was one of the select few who knew where the celebrity resided.

Minerva had never liked the Dursleys. She knew from the beginning that they didn’t have a high opinion of magick. But the Headmaster was right — in a politically turbulent landscape, it was still the safest place for her. Perhaps it will have been better that she didn’t grow up coddled and worshipped. Minerva didn’t know how much the Dursleys would have told her. Petunia had kept her distance of all things magical. Still, Minerva let herself hope they did something special for the girl. It’s not every day you find out you’re a witch.

[1] Also referred to the _art of the_ _drzewo, _by which druids travel through trees.

[2] The singular goal of the Ministry of Secrets is to prevent the muggle world from discovering the truth. In an age of developing technology, that is harder than ever. As a result, they are the _first responders_ to muggle-wizard incidents and they are constantly on the lookout for reckless witchcraft. They often work with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to enforce secrecy.


	4. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Elements of Child Abuse

Holly Potter dreamed about running away.

She'd fantasized about it for as long as she could remember. Sometimes she would imagine a wealthy businessman stopping her on the street as she walked back from school. He would claim that she looked just like the heiress to some fortune and find herself whisked away to a penthouse in the city. Then she'd reach Number Four, Privet Drive and wish she had the courage to keep on walking, find someplace new. Chances were she'd be kidnapped by a nondescript van driven by a man in a leering mustache. She told a counselor at school once she wanted to leave. He had pointed out that she didn't have anywhere else to go.

She hated that he was right.

Even though her limbs shook with weakness, Aunt Petunia put her in charge of breakfast. Not that she had expected any different. She dished everyone up and took a seat. She began to nibble on a piece of toast.

“Ah, mail should have arrived by now,” Uncle Vernon said as he folded his newspaper. He was a large beefy man, a towering heavy-set figure, with a walrus mustache.

Dudley turned his piggy little eyes on her and sneered, “Go get the mail, freak,” he said, jabbing his fork at her.

His words rankled beneath her flesh, searching for the moment when ice begins to burn_. Why don’t you get it for a change_, she thought, glaring at her cousin from across the table as he shoved bacon and eggs into his mouth.

“Get the mail, girl,” her Uncle said above her, a rumble of a warning in his throat.

Hunger clawed at her stomach but she knew better than to argue. She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. She was relieved Dudley had gotten into that smarmy private Christian school. Maybe without her cousin punching everyone she tried to talk to, she might actually make some friends.

Clenching and unclenching her fists, she walked down the hall. On the floor mat, she found a few letters: a bill, a postcard from Aunt Marge and - a letter for her? She inspected the envelope.

Miss H Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Yakima, WA

It was made of a much heavier paper than the others and yellowish. No stamp, no return address—she turned it over and saw a red wax seal along with a crest depicting a badger, an eagle, a snake, and a lion all-around a large letter H.

She’d never gotten a letter before. Why would anyone send _her_ a letter? Holly broke the wax seal and opened it to read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore

Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards

Dear Miss Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy. Please find enclosed a list of all the necessary equipment and suggested books.

The term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Her eyes traveled over the message and when she reached the end, she stopped. She stared blankly at the document, at the ink that shimmered in fluorescent lighting. She read it again, squinting at the words. From the kitchen, Uncle Vernon raised his voice.

“What the devil is taking you so long, girl?”

Slowly, Holly turned around and began to walk back towards the kitchen, eyes still trained on the parchment. Her first impulse was to crumple the paper and throw it away, reject it all as a cruel joke. But — the glass vanishing at the zoo—

Wordlessly, she handed Uncle Vernon the mail, her eyes still trained on the paper in her hands.

“What’s that Holly’s got?” Dudley said suddenly, and Holly looked up. She found the entire Dursley family regarding her with suspicion.

“I got a letter,” she said. “Inviting me to a school.”

"A school?" repeated Dudley, staring at her. Aunt Petunia looked from her to the letter held in her hands and snatched it to read. She saw her Aunt's nostrils flare white, a maddening panic popping in her eyes.

“I want to go,” Holly said, determined.

Her Aunt didn’t reply for a long minute, and then she scoffed. “You believe this? It’s obviously a scam. Magic isn’t real.” Holly watched Uncle Vernon take the letter to read next.

“Then explain why the glass vanished at the zoo—”

_SMACK!_

Aunt Petunia had reached across the table, slapping her across the face. Holly touched the red welt with her hand, missing half the furious tirade spewing from Aunt Petunia.

“—absolutely ungrateful! And after everything we’ve done for you—”

“I don’t get it,” Holly interrupted, fighting back the tears welling in her eyes. “If I’m such a burden why don’t you let me go? At least I won’t be _here_.”

Dudley’s mouth fell open, staring between his parents and Holly. She ignored him, fixing her green eyes on her Uncle. “I’ve always wondered why you were so scared of the word, _magick_,” she continued, spitting the word back at him.

“How DARE YOU—” Uncle Vernon began, his ruddy face purpling, his eyes bulging. Holly watched him crumple the letter as his fists shook, but she had read that letter. She knew what it said.

This is why they hated her. They knew. They knew what she was, what she could do. This was why she wasn't allowed to be a little girl free to discover and be herself. To know that there was a reason—sweet relief. Validation. She had someplace else she could go—there were others like her.

Maybe she didn’t have to stay here, anymore.

“What do you care!?” Holly shrieked back at him, the unexpected retort throwing Uncle Vernon for a moment. “If I go I’ll be out of your lives, won’t I? I’ll leave right now!” and she went to make a break for the door — if it weren’t for the large meaty hand that clamped around her forearm.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Uncle Vernon roared, yanking her back so hard that she hit the table with her hips. “Petunia and I agreed we’d only take you in if we put a stop to all that rubbish.”

Hot tears trailed down her cheeks now. She massaged the bones of her hips, falling haphazardly back into her chair. “You’ve known from the beginning?” she asked. She could feel the flutter of her blood in the vein of her neck, the tingle in her palms.

Aunt Petunia gave a harsh bark of mirthless laughter. “How could we _not_ know?” she said, folding her arms. “What with my sister coming home with pockets full of frogspawn, hanging out with that awful boy — we wanted nothing to do with it, didn’t we, Vernon?”

It was the first time she had ever spoken of Holly’s mother.

“My — mom was a witch?”

“And so was her good for nothing husband,” Aunt Petunia snarled. “But they had to go get themselves blown up.”

“Blown up—”

“Or murdered, I never cared enough to find out more,” Aunt Petunia went on savagely. “As far as I’m concerned, God decided to wipe them off the map.”

Holly’s head was spinning. Her parents had been murdered? She wanted to ask a million more questions but the Dursleys had never been good with curiosity. And, judging from the murderous rage growing in the gleam of Uncle Vernon’s eyes, Holly had crossed the line a long time ago.

“ENOUGH!” he bellowed, and he seized her by the scruff of her shirt.

“No—stop, Uncle—” she tried, wincing as the shirt collar dug into her skin as he bodily dragged her from the table. Without a word, he threw open the door to her cupboard and shoved her inside. He slammed the door on her, and she cried out as it hit her knee.

She heard the kitchen door open and close, heard raised voices from the space.

“Dudley, go to your room.”

Uncle Vernon still sounded so dangerous that Dudley didn’t protest, but Holly could hear his whine as he shuffled down the hall, kicking her cupboard hard as he passed, and then stamping up the stairs.

She couldn’t hear the murmured words of her Aunt and Uncle, but she didn’t have to. She rubbed her bruising knee, pulling herself into a more comfortable position. No matter what they decided in that room — she was going to Hogwarts.

Even if she had to walk there.

* * *

When her Uncle let her out of her cupboard an hour later, Dudley was nowhere to be seen. He ushered her back into the kitchen where Aunt Petunia sat, the table already clear from breakfast.

“Sit down,” Uncle Vernon said, pushing her back into her chair. He then sat down next to Aunt Petunia.

“Where’s my letter?” Holly asked as the silence began to drag.

“Gone,” Uncle Vernon snarled.

“I’ve sent a letter to this Minerva McGonagall,” Aunt Petunia said, looking as though she found the name distasteful. “I’ve told her you will not be going to this school.”

“What!?” Holly exclaimed. “You can’t!”

“Silence, girl!” and Uncle Vernon slapped her so hard across the face, that she fell from the chair and onto the kitchen floor. World spinning, she looked up into the purpling rage of her Uncle and shrunk back against the cabinets.

“You should be grateful! We’ve sheltered and fed you — haven’t we? If it’d been up to me, we never would’a kept you.”

“Vernon,” came Aunt Petunia’s clipped tone. Her uncle paused, still towering over Holly with hate in his eyes. He reached for her and Holly flinched as he seized her shirt again and pulled her back into her chair.

“You’re not going, and that’s final,” Aunt Petunia said.

Holly bit her tongue until blood knocked against her teeth.

“Now, you have gotten a bit big for the cupboard.”

Holly didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't reply.

“From now on you’ll stay in Dudley’s second bedroom.”

Holly stared at her. Did she really think something like a room upgrade would make this better? She had seen her Aunt bribe Dudley enough times to know how it worked. But — her face still smarted from where Uncle Vernon had hit her. Her tantrums wouldn’t work on them.

“Grab your things and move them.”

Holly didn’t move. Was that it? They weren’t even going to explain? “What about my parents?” she whispered.

"Move. Now," Uncle Vernon snarled, and she lept to her feet as if she were electrocuted. As she headed for her cupboard and grabbed what few possessions she had, Holly knew she had to figure out a way to contact McGonagall herself — but how?

* * *

Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall,

I am writing to inform you that Holly Potter will not be attending your school. Please do not contact us again.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Petunia Dursley

As far as responses go, this wasn’t one she had expected. Minerva McGonagall frowned down at the rushed penmanship, and then at the name beneath it. Petunia Dursley. She picked up the envelope and surveyed the address.

She included her Hogsmeade address in letters to muggleborns. The courier for Hogsmeade was a squib who liked acting as the bridge between the muggle and magical worlds. In retrospect, she should have sent a personalized letter, or better yet show up in person. It was clear she would need to treat this more like a muggleborn orphan situation — a high profile one. The idea of Holly Potter _not_ going to Hogwarts was almost laughable, if nearly impossible.

The Deputy Headmistress leaned back in her chair, pulling her hands together as she gazed at the paper before her. Then, making a decision, she rose and crossed over to the fireplace smoldering softly in the corner. From a clay pot on the mantelpiece, she grabbed a pinch of powder and threw it into the flames, where they crackled green.

“Albus!” the witch called. “I need a word.”


	5. The Wizard

By the time her birthday rolled around, Holly didn't expect much. She had been blocked at every corner from contacting Hogwarts — not to mention that she didn't have a phone number or an address for them. She had even snuck onto Dudley's computer while he was out with his friends and had discovered two things — there was no mention of Hogwarts anywhere, and no one seriously believed in magick.

The only improvement was that she now had a real bedroom. Dudley hadn't taken it well. He'd thrown one of his video game systems out the window, though Holly failed to see how that punished anyone but him. If her Aunt and Uncle were smart they wouldn't buy him a new one —as if they could say no to _ickle-diddy-kins_.

Holly dreamed that night.

She woke with her vision blinded by bright green light, the sound of a motorcycle loud in her ears. And then the sound transformed into the hard wrap of knuckles on wood, as Aunt Petunia banged on her door at the crack of dawn like always. Nothing had changed except the scenery. She dragged herself out of bed and down to the kitchen to make breakfast, and as the rest of the Dursleys entered the kitchen without so much as a hello in her direction, even as she dished up breakfast, she wondered why she had even bothered to hope.

_Happy Birthday,_ she thought, gazing down at her meager breakfast of a single soft-boiled egg.

The doorbell rang.

"Wonder who that is?" Aunt Petunia said looking as if she'd eaten a lemon. She didn't like unexpected visitors. Her eyes fell on Holly, her beady gaze looking at her oversized shirt, baggy sweatpants, and bedhead. "Comb your hair," she barked as she rose to her feet and headed down the hall.

Holly didn't see what the point was. She had never let her hair get very long—less area for her cousin to pull. In rebellion, her hair had curled into an unmanageable mess, which refused to do anything. She had just tried to flatten her bangs over the lightning bolt scar across her forehead when she heard the front door open and Aunt Petunia gave a faint scream.

Within seconds, Uncle Vernon had risen from the table, knocking forks and napkins to the floor. Holly and Dudley shared a glance, and then they were scrambling to catch up. From the tangle of limbs filling the corridor, Holly could just make out a figure with a long flowing silver beard and high heeled buckled boots.

"Good Morning. You must be Mrs. Petunia Dursley. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts," said the man. Holly slipped past her cousin to perch on the stairwell to see him better. Albus Dumbledore wore robes of deep magenta, trimmed with intricate detail work of golden thread that climbed in swirling patterns. His beard and hair were so long that he could tuck them into his belt, and half-moon spectacles decorated light blue eyes.

The Dursleys seemed too shocked to reply, so Dumbledore went on, "I think this conversation ought not to be had on the doorstep, so let us assume you have invited me warmly into your house."

As he stepped inside and the door swung shut behind him, something seemed to break in Aunt Petunia. "We—we told you she's not going," she said, her tone strained and faint.

"Ah yes, I did have a chance to read your letter to Professor McGonagall. I thought it best to explain the matter in person. And this must be your husband, Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore went on, turning to Vernon. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Vernon Dursley grunted in reply.

Then Dumbledore looked up the stairs to see Holly sitting there, and he smiled with such an unfamiliar expression of softness that she stared.

"And you must be Holly Potter."

"Yes, sir," she whispered.

"Now wait a minute here — you can't just walk in here. We're her guardians and if—" Uncle Vernon stumbled into silence the moment the old wizard looked at him.

"Everything will be explained, shall we assume you invited me to your sitting room? Holly, perhaps it will be easier if you were to wait in your room until we finished."

Holly desperately wanted to listen to how he convinced her Aunt and Uncle but she wasn't about to argue. She nodded to show she understood, and Dudley began to whine.

"Mom—"

"This must be your son?" Dumbledore said turning to him. "And what's your name young man?"

Aunt Petunia went bone white. "Dudley, go to your room. Now."

"But—"

"Now," hissed Uncle Vernon, a vein throbbing in his temple. That was enough for Holly, who had no interest in being Dudley's path. With a last glance at the aged wizard, she wondered how he kept such an appearance of polite hospitality. If her Uncle had been looking at her like that — she shuddered and vanished into her room.

She didn't know how long it would take. She paced back and forth across her carpet until boredom won over and she began to read one of the books Dudley had left in there—a fantasy novel. She had just gotten to the part where the hero discovered they weren't normal when someone knocked at her door.

The Dursleys would never knock. Holly was off her bed in a second and pulled open her door. Dumbledore stood there, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Thank you for your patience," he said.

"Oh, sure, sir." Her breathing was shallow. What did they decide?

"The Dursleys have agreed to allow you to go, provided you stay at Hogwarts for all observable holidays, that is, of course, you want to go?"

"I'll go anywhere as long as it isn't here," she replied and he chuckled. She wanted to tell him she wasn't joking.

"Excellent! Now, there is the matter of acquiring your school supplies. I'm afraid I have other business to attend to, so I will introduce you to one of my associates, a most excellent individual by the name of Rubeus Hagrid. He will meet us at the Leaky Cauldron."

Holly stared at him. "We—we're going now?"

And Dumbledore laughed. "Of course, my dear. If I'm not mistaken, today is your birthday. I think a party is in order, don't you?"

Her heartfelt lighter than it had in years. She was going to Hogwarts. There was nothing that could make this Birthday better, nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had many different ideas for how the arrival of the Hogwarts letters would go down. And, frankly, it's a crime if I never share the other versions. Here is a narrative experiment, with options for different endings, and my rough draft for this first arc. You will notice that it's truer to traditional Harry Potter canon, but will also recognize some direct prose - especially from the beginning. 
> 
> [ Softly Sinister Slytherin: An Interactive Experiment ](http://philome.la/Riddellwrites/softly-sinister-slytherin)   



	6. A Jealous God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's address the elephant in the room: Religion.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t have a car.

Confused, Holly asked him how he got anywhere then. Yakima didn’t have the best public transportation system. Everyone she knew had a car—and besides, how else would you get to Ellensburg or Seattle or _anywhere really_? They didn’t have a train station. Greyhound Buses ran once a day early in the morning and weren’t cheap. Not to mention, you needed a car just to get to the grocery store.

Cars were a necessity.

“I use a different mode of transportation,” he told her, tapping his nose.

He offered his hand and led her down the street and around the corner to where a small community park was. There was one other mother there with two children, younger than Holly. She glanced curiously in their direction as they arrived. Dumbledore smiled back at her and gave a little wave, never faltering as he led Holly behind the trees browning in the hot summer air.

When they reached a tree wide as a grown man, Dumbledore pressed his hand to the bark. “Touch the tree,” he told her.

Holly touched her palm carefully against the trunk. “Now what?” she whispered. But suddenly, her hand began to sink into the wood. She gasped, looking up at Dumbledore.

“Wait for me on the other side, Holly,” he told her calmly, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

Holly swallowed but didn’t fight against the force that pulled her into the tree. She couldn’t explain the sensation in her limbs, the way that passing through wood felt like smoke and sawdust, water and earth. She could smell ponderosa pine. Felt the needles like fingers in her hair. And then she was standing in a wooded glen in the shadow of towering mountain—and Holly gasped.

Yakima had vanished from sight. She hadn’t seen this place before, ever in her life. She gave a nervous giggle, clamping her hands over her mouth. She had just experienced magick! Real magick!

_Real magick..._

Unbidden, she heard Uncle Vernon’s voice as Dumbledore stepped out from the tree behind her.

“…_those who practice magick arts, the idolaters and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur_[1],” Uncle Vernon had boomed, closing the bible shut with a snap. “Hear that girl? So make sure not to go near magick, not unless you want to spend an eternity in hell.”

Holly bit her lip. “Mr. Dumbledore—” she began, turning to look at him.

“Professor, please,” he laughed.

“Professor,” Holly tried again. She swallowed. “What about—what about my eternal soul?”

Professor Dumbledore did not reply for a moment. He surveyed her through his half-moon spectacles. “Why do you think your eternal soul is in danger?”

“The—the bible says that magick is wicked.”

Holly thought she heard a sharp intake of breath, but Dumbledore maintained an air of composure. “What does this bible say about other religions?”

“Sir?”

Holly didn’t understand. Other religions? “But, Uncle Vernon said that there’s only one God. Everyone should just believe in him and be saved.”

“Ah, I see so… the Dursley’s God is the _real_ one and ours is the fake one.”

Holly didn’t like how he made that sound. She scrunched up her nose and took a step away from him. “What—what are you trying to say?”

“My dear girl, have you never considered that what the Dursleys believe is wrong?”

Holly stared at him. “What—” _what did he mean. _“That—” _she might have been lied too._

Dumbledore knelt down, leaning back on his legs, showing no care for how the leaves touched his cloak, unperturbed by the lack of a chair, comfortable as ever right there on the forest floor. Aunt Petunia would have remained uncomfortable and indignant until her situation improved.

Her mind calmed enough to notice that Dumbledore was still waiting for her to finish her thought. She couldn’t remember a time when an adult had ever done that for her. “I—” she ran her fingers through her hair, over her eyes, and took a deep breath. “I just don’t know if I am misunderstanding you and I’m—”

_Don’t ask questions._

Dumbledore had answered every single one of her questions, with one of his own. The Dursleys had never done that. They didn’t care what she thought about anything. They would have preferred it if she had never opened her mouth. She was confused. She was frightened. And she didn’t know how to check if this would be a _bad idea._ If she could trust this Albus Dumbledore.

What if he stole these words from her mouth and told the Dursleys? Her Aunt and Uncle would say that she was doomed for sure. Was this her heavenly test? Was he an agent of the Devil, enchanting her with lies?

The Dursleys had always reacted negatively against inquiries. They had feared the answers. They feared that knowing would hurt them. Change hurt them.

But… Holly would like things to change. She dreamed of change. She didn’t like her life.

Her eyes began to swell with tears and in a panic, she turned her face away from Dumbledore. To cry was to show _weakness_. The Dursleys had taken advantage of her weakness before.

“Why, whatever is the matter, my dear?” Dumbledore asked gently, a note of concern in his voice now.

“I—I’m scared that the Dursleys are right.” She tensed, and then wiped her eyes. She turned back around to look at Dumbledore, an obvious crease of suspicion in her brow now. “How do I know I can trust you?”

She looked around the clearing and saw that they appeared to be quite alone in the middle of the woods. The air around them sounded… quiet. As if things were listening.

“You could have brought me here to hurt me. You might not be who you claim to say you are.” Holly had seen clips of Dudley’s television shows. Investigations required evidence. “How do I know that I can trust you—trust any of it?”

Saying this all while in a situation where if it so happened that the answer was—_you can’t, he’s going to eat you now_, she was in no position to do anything about it. She was at his mercy. She had overheard what men could do to little girls when they wanted to scare them.

Being in this situation with Uncle Vernon was one of her worst nightmares.

She observed Dumbledore from behind her wet eyelashes. How had he taken this admission? He had not started yelling. His attitude felt as pleasant and gentle as before. He did not look back at her with hate in his eyes. He looked at her like no one ever had. Gentle. Concerned. Like she had seen Mrs. Figg look at one of her cats that had started crying.

Like how a parent would look at a child.

“Of course you can trust me,” said Dumbledore, gently wiping away one of her tears. The action brought a tremble to her lip. “I didn’t think the Dursleys would make you so hesitant to believe in the existence of magick,” he chuckled. Something about his expression made her think that unsettled him. It didn’t last long. “They didn’t explain anything about your parents at all?”

Holly shook her head. “Aunt Petunia pretends she never had a sister.”

Dumbledore leaned back, palms against the ground, frowning. “I see.” He paused, and she saw the train of a new thought on his mind. “I think you would most appreciate it then if I were to be frank, Miss Potter.”

Holly gave a small start. The manner in which he spoke had changed. He sounded more like he would if he were talking to another adult. And no one had ever called her _Miss _Potter before. But he was offering honesty, and Holly had never wanted anything more. “Yes,” she whispered.

He didn’t rise from the ground, but he did take a breath that lasted six seconds before continuing.

“Your parents were bright even as children, and I engaged with them frequently during their years at Hogwarts. And even after they left Hogwarts, we frequently saw each other due to our shared political beliefs. The geopolitical atmosphere at the time pushed us to take a vocal stance and fight for what we believed was right. Because of that, your parents caught the attention of an advocate for the opposite viewpoint and one night, he personally went to their home and murdered them.”

Holly swayed with the soft breeze that tickled her elbow. _Murdered_. “What happened after that?” she whispered.

Dumbledore searched her face before answering, the twinkle in his eye unsettling. It made her wonder what he was looking for.

“He vanished that very same night.”

Holly frowned. “They never found out who did it?”

“Oh, they did. It was a gentleman by the name of Tom Riddle. He went by the pseudonym Lord Voldemort during his anonymous years, while maintaining the persona of a politician. His identity was revealed only a few months after the death of your parents.”

“Then what happened to him?”

Dumbledore shrugged. “We’re not sure.”

Somehow, without her knowing, she had ended up taking a seat on the forest floor next to him. Sticks poked into her sweatpants, dirt pressed into her clothes. “What do you know?” she asked, her eyes growing wide.

“We know he came to your house on October 31, 2001, and murdered both your parents with a killing curse. We know he then turned his wand on you, but for whatever reason, the curse rebounded and he vanished instead. The only thing that remained was you and your scar like a bolt of lightning. Lord Voldemort has not been seen since that night, and Tom Riddle has not been seen in the ministry since.”

Holly had a horrible thought. “Does that mean… he’s not coming back, is he?”

“Now that, my dear girl, no one can say for certain. But one _wonders**[2]**.” _Dumbledore turned his gaze to something past her, somewhere she could not see. Then he came to himself and smiled. “But back to the point—I had attempted to help hide your parents after I learned that Tom Riddle had decided to target them.”

_I guess you didn’t hide them well enough_. Holly hesitated, and then asked, “What went wrong?”

“Someone told Riddle where they were hiding. An old family friend had switched sides. He was sent to Azkaban prison, where he’s remained for ten years.”

Holly’s insides felt cold and clammy. And then she felt… calm. “So, that’s it then? We know who did it—everyone who was responsible was caught?” It felt distant like a story that had happened to someone else. It had an ending.

_I don’t have to avenge my parents?_

“Yes.”

Holly paused. “We just—don’t know why he vanished, do we?”

Professor Dumbledore shook his head. “I haven’t found anything to suggest a reason yet. It’s never happened before. And we don’t know exactly what he was up to in his downtime; what spells he may have experimented with. I know he searched for a way to cheat death—but I don’t know what he discovered. It has been difficult to retrace his steps—but I’ll let you know when I find out.”

“Okay.”

“Now,” and Dumbledore began to gather himself, rising to his feet. “Do you still want to go to Hogwarts?”

Her heart gave a funny twinge. “What about—what about magick?”

“The Dursleys fear magick because they have a Jealous God[3] that doesn’t want to share their followers. They want _all_ of the followers. They are convinced that their way is right, and everyone else must be wrong. They do not want to give people a choice, not really. Because then they would have to accept the possibility of someone deciding it’s not for them. Assimilate or perish.”

He still had bits of the forest floor clinging to his clothes, like fingers that didn’t want to let go.

“That’s not the freedom to choose,” Holly said, thinking again of the Garden of Eden and the tree of life.

“Indeed not.”

Holly could remember a story she had learned during Sunday school about the [Council in Heaven](https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/liahona/1984/04/the-great-council-in-heaven?lang=eng). Way she heard it, God had asked who among his angels would go to earth to be a savior, and pay the price the human’s mistakes so that we would deserve to come home. Jesus said send me, I’ll do it. And then his brother Lucifer asked if he could go instead for he had a better idea: he would ensure that everyone returned to God, with him _not one soul would be lost_. But God didn’t want to force everyone to come back if they didn’t want to—and sent Jesus instead. They argued until God punished Lucifer and kicked him, and all those who agreed with him, out of Heaven.

Funny, the Dursleys had more in common with Lucifer than Jesus now that she thought about it. They had never given her a choice. They had punished her for being different. They had wanted to ensure that she would join them at the Heavenly Gates during the Second Coming.

She had never imagined herself happy there, not among those people.

Holly took a deep breath. “I want to go to Hogwarts,” she said, the confidence in her voice growing. “I want to be free.”

Dumbledore gave a little chuckle, “I thought you might.” He extended his hand and effortlessly pulled Holly to her feet. “Now, I want to introduce you to someone. He will assist you in purchasing all your school supplies.”

“You’re not staying?”

They began to walk through the trees until they came to a hiking path. Holly kept one eye on her duct-taped sneakers, making sure she didn’t fall on a wayward root.

“Alas, no,” Dumbledore said with a sigh, “I have some other matters that require my attention today, but I wanted to see you off.”

“Oh,” Holly said, and they walked in silence down an incline, until the path hit a well-worn road, the dirt hardened by years of shoes. Then—“Do wizards have a God, sir?”

“More than one,” Dumbledore said promptly. “But they don’t take an interest in our day-to-day lives. Not unless we ask them to.”

“Ask them?” Holly repeated, and Dumbledore chuckled.

“You’ll learn all about it at school, I’m sure. Ah—here we are.”

* * *

[1] Revelations 21:8

[2] Professor Rook, a leading archivist of the Ministry of Books would say, “Sometimes, a human’s survival depended on the ability to predict the future. It’s easy to turn your nose up against someone who believes in a deity that can control the movement of the weather in order to do his bidding.

At one point, two humans had an argument about how to know whether or not it was going to rain. Knowing when it would rain was important. Crops needed rain in order to grow, in order to produce food. It was frustrating because there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the way it happened. But then, one of the guys, let’s call him… [Elijah](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+Kings+18%3A41-19%3A8&version=NLT) or something, claimed that he knew how rain happened. He _foretold_ the return of rain. When someone else asked him, well—_how_ do you know? Are you _sure?_ How sure are you, really?

What do you have when all you’ve got is a gut feeling?

He knew because the clouds moved in this way, turned dark and stormy, and sometimes produced lightning. These are the characteristics of a thundercloud. Now, what _is_ a thundercloud? How does _that_ work? Great question! But he’s only seen enough thunderstorms in his life to make a possible _guess_. Maybe, rain comes when there are dark clouds above them. If we see dark clouds that means it’s going to rain. Turns out, that’s correct!

Now… are they controlling the clouds? How do clouds work exactly? For the guy who is unsure how to convince an audience who may not be articulating it in any other way except to inquire, _why should we believe you? _—I can see why he might say it’s because of God. He can’t explain how or why he knows. He’s got no other way to convince them. He cannot perform the science to back up his claims. But then, it’s like he said. When the sky grows dark and gray and stormy, rain is coming.

Sometimes, these storms can be deadly. It helps to know when they are coming.

But you don’t have anything to write this down, you’ve got to tell your buddies and hope they remember this tale well enough to tell it to their kids, and that their kids will then pass on the knowledge to their kids.

Have you ever played Telephone before? Oral traditional storytelling has a long and fascinating history. How did the different versions of the bible over time reflect the societies in which they resided?

And for the earliest stories, the ones you made up as children that disregarded all reason…that was that type of story that saved us once. We developed an instinct to _discover_. To understand. We craved an answer so desperately that when someone was unable to find it, they settled for the next best thing.

_Imagining._

But like so many other vestigial traits, it has been proven to be unreliable. Religious leaders were often about as accurate as a coin toss.

[3] Exodus 20:5


	7. The Leaky Cauldron

Holly didn’t see anything at first. Her head swiveled around to find nothing but the forest on all sides; she heard a river some distance away. She frowned and looked up at Dumbledore, trying to follow his gaze. She squinted, wiping the front of her round glasses.

Once she saw the wooden beams of a building, she wondered how she could have missed it. It was a dilapidated house, ceiling giving in, and greenery along the frame. Glass had long ago fallen out of the windowpanes.

“It’s—just an abandoned house,” she said, confused.

“Keep your eye on it and count three steps.”

More magick? Holly nodded and fixed her eyes on the house. Trying not to blink, she counted three steps forward—and grinned. The defunct ramparts fell away. She watched as a large log-tavern emerged from through the trees, living trunks acting as beams in the house, their branches the planks. Behind the leaves like shuttered windows, golden light blazed through every crack, looking as if the place were about to burst from within. A sunny beacon.

On a large wooden sign outside of the establishment, carved into the wood and then painted over was the name: The Leaky Cauldron. However, there was no door. Dumbledore stepped up to the building, and promptly bowed before the trees, then he turned to Holly.

“Dear, just walk up to it and introduce yourself.”

Holly wondered if he was mad. “To what, the trees?”

“Yes. Ah—first name, only, please.”

Holly looked back at him confused, but he hadn’t let her down yet, so she didn’t hesitate before stepping forward and inclining her head in a bow like Dumbledore, “Hello… I’m Holly.”

She looked up to see the way the tree gently fluttered its green leaves so that they caught the sunlight. She didn’t have a lot of experience with trees, but it felt _friendly_, at the very least. And Holly suddenly had a feeling that she knew where this was going. She smiled.

“Can me[1] and Professor Dumbledore come inside?”

The tree directly in front of her, the one she had been talking to, gave a little shudder and shuffled to the side, dragging roots from the ground as if the fingers of a gardener. Inside, Holly could see that the roots of the other trees combined together to form a wooden floor, knobs and growths in the wood used as tables and chairs, a bar with a hollow behind it.

It reminded her of a carefully cultivated bonsai tree.

She turned back to beam at Dumbledore, and with a little gesture of his hand toward the opening he said, “After you, Miss Potter.”

Inside was a bustling soiree of people. Holly stepped forward, and more than one person turned in curiosity to see who had arrived as the tree closed the hole behind them. A hush descended over the room. Holly heard her own blood pumping in her ears as Dumbledore guided her through the people. She could see heads dip to one another as whispers snaked through the air.

_Why do I feel like everyone is staring at me?_

“Why, Headmaster Dumbledore, sir, who’s that you’ve got with you?” asked a balding man behind the bar.

“A new Hogwarts student, Tom[2],” Dumbledore replied. Holly felt his hand rest on her shoulder.

“Yeah? What’s your name, love?”

Holly blinked, taken aback. _Love?_ The instant familiarity trickled down her skin in a shiver and she took a step behind Dumbledore without meaning to. She saw Tom’s smile fall slightly, his eyes darting to Dumbledore and back again.

“So shy, all of a sudden,” Dumbledore chuckled in reply, glancing down at her with a quirk in his brow. He looked back at Tom. “Has Hagrid arrived yet?”

“Uh, yes actually, about five minutes ago.”

“Excellent, come on dear,” Dumbledore said with a reassuring smile at Holly and he began to cut a path through the patrons.

At some point, the conversation had returned to normal volume. Holly kept close to Dumbledore and looked around the tavern, taking it all in. The wood had a honeyed gloss that caught the smallest beams of light and brightened. She looked up. There was no ceiling. High above, intermingled between the leaves and dancing above their heads were hundreds of golden fireflies, like giant light bulbs.

She was so distracted that she gave a small jump when an enormous shadow darkened her view. “Ah, sorry I shouldn’ ta spooked you,” came an abashed voice and Holly took a step back and looked around.

An enormous man stood before her, twice as tall as Dumbledore and at least five times as wide. His wild tangle of black hair brushed the bottom of the lowest tree leaves. One of the fireflies landed on his nose and he blew a breath that sent it sailing four feet into the air. His eyes were like glittering black beetles, but even though she couldn’t see all the features of his face, Holly could tell he was smiling.

“Miss,” Dumbledore said with another little proper nod in her direction. “This is Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

“Hello, Mr. Hagrid,” Holly said and the giant of a man boomed with laughter that shook the ground beneath her feet.

“I ain’t never been a mister before,” he said. “Just call me Hagrid.”

She grinned back up at him. “Hello Hagrid, I’m Holly Potter.”

Somewhere in the tavern, someone dropped a tankard onto the floor with a clattering splash.

“Did she say—”

“I heard it too.”

Holly heard the growing volume and drew close to Dumbledore’s cloak again. She missed what the two men said to each other. Her eyes had just landed on another gentleman seated across the room.

He was half hidden, a dozen other people between the two of them. But then a limb shifted, a branch was pushed out of the way, and there he was—a man wearing a faded royal purple turban.

And he was looking at her.

When she realized, she didn’t know what to do. She looked away, awkward and then looked back. He was still staring at her. His eyes didn’t waver. There was nothing hostile about the expression on his face. He was staring at her like she was a television program he had seen many times and was only curious about what she would do next. She met his pale blue eyes…

He _blinked_. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, surprise in his brows. And then he lifted an index finger against his lips in an unmistakable _hush_. Holly stared at him.

_What—_

A middle-aged woman stepped directly in front of her view, and Holly lost sight of him. But even as Dumbledore offered a rushed goodbye and Hagrid led her away from a growing crowd of excited patrons, Holly’s thoughts remained with the man. There had been something about him that set her on edge. Had it been the shadows beneath his eyes? She thought she’d seen Dudley with a similar expression when he’d discovered a new toy he couldn’t wait to play with.

He was just liable to break them when he was done.

“—Can’t believe I’m meeting you at last, Miss Potter.”

“Daedalus Diggle, may I shake your hand, Miss Potter?”

“Oi! Stop crowdin’ me,” Hagrid said, his booming voice easily heard above the din. “Hogwarts business, mind yerselves. Look—yer scarin’ her.”

Holly looked up at him. In the confusion, she hadn’t understood what was happening. And then she noticed all of the hands eagerly held out in her direction; all of the friendly faces begging for her attention. She felt—like one of those babies in a stroller that everyone wanted to come to say hello too. She felt praise and adoration but she hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

The minute Hagrid had spoken, everyone around him began to back off. Some of them inspected her face as if they were looking through the windows of a house, checking to see if the lights were on. Then they’d smile, wave, and return to their seats.

Like she was some sort of celebrity…

Hagrid had ushered her down a narrowing hallway of thick tree trunks and leafy turns until they came to a hedge. Hagrid cleared his throat loudly, and Holly turned back to see the last few stragglers leave them to it. She couldn’t see the man in the turban at all from this angle.

“Hagrid…” she began slowly. “What was that? Why did everyone crowd us?”

Hagrid sighed. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to tell you,” he told her in an undertone. Holly stared back at him—

“Tell me what?”

But Hagrid didn’t say. Instead, he fixed his attention on the wall of green before him. With his finger, he brushed a pattern across the leaves. Two down, three across. The leaves began to curl back, revealing a doorway outside of the living tavern.

In the shadow of a tall mountain of jutting stone was a town. She saw a road of pounded dirt and broken pottery, giving it a polished porcelain shine, winding through enormous pines. To her right, she saw a river cutting a cliff until it lowered and a bank formed next to a small meadow. She could see just off in the distance from her angle that there was an arrangement of large colorful tents just off the meadow in a meandering series of rectangles. Directly along the path however were shops, some like the tavern appeared to be crafted of living trees. Others were more familiar, pieces of harvested wood, but they had an old weathered look to them. And still others were crafted from different chunks of stone, bricks like assorted pebbles cemented together. And all around were people laughing, talking, dipping in and out of shops with parcels in their hands and animals at their sides.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley.”

[1] Can Professor Dumbledore and I*

[2] Tom the Innkeeper had taken over the establishment from his father, who’d inherited it from his father’s father. Grandfather Ol’ Will One Eye had made an agreement with the trees back in the seventeen hundreds. The trees hadn’t trusted him much at first—even poked out his eye during the second set of negotiations. But once he proved to care about their continued existence, they reached a compromise. Now the Leaky Cauldron is considered a gathering place of transient folk, those stopping over and returning back, to share tales and keep the locals appraised of the news. It also hides the entrance to Diagon Alley, the merchant and craft center of Cascadia.


	8. All That Glitters

Holly had never seen a place like it.

She watched as a crow swooped down from one of the ironwork lamps, picked something up from the ground with its beak, and dropped it in a trash bin on the street corner. The laughter of two witches drifted over to her, and she stared at the bats that hung asleep on their wide-brimmed black hats. Holly and Hagrid passed a shop selling cauldrons of all types and sizes. She saw a food stand with a young man helping folks appraise watermelons, trays of plants all around him still growing, bearing plump ripe fruit.

Hagrid was talking to her, pointing out the shops. “That’s Flourish and Blots, where they got every book ever written.” It was a towering building with walls made of thick, leather-bound covers and tall wooden spiral staircases.

There was a dark hollow with thick winding branches and dark shadows from where she could hear soft hooting as they passed, a sign with a feather motif and the words _Eeylops Owl Emporium_ hanging from one of the branches. A group of boys around her age were all crowded around a window, a sleek expensive broom staged in the display case. She heard one of them say, awed, “The Nimbus 2000—fastest yet—”

She saw shops selling complicated models of the moons and stars, quills, fountain pens, and ink and handmade paper, cloaks and clothing tailored to each customer, sundials, glittering stones and gems of every color, and then she saw contraptions she’d never seen before; strange metal instruments and apothecaries with windows full of drying herbs and tubs of mysterious ingredients.

There was too much to see all at once. What did they even need? She had never gotten a chance to read her equipment list.

“Hagrid,” she began, tugging on his shirt to get his attention, “What are we looking for?”

“Well, we need to get yer money, of course!”

Holly stared at him, coming to a stop in the street. “Money?” she repeated.

_I don’t have any—_

“At Gringotts! The Wizard Bank,” Hagrid announced as they turned down a bend in the road that led right up into the mountainside, until they came to an old coal mining shaft entrance, stone supports carved like wooden beams. On a wide wooden sign above was the name Gringotts, in gold lettering. She hesitated, falling behind Hagrid as he made to stride inside. Her gaze had caught a plaque, just inside the wall of the mineshaft and carved into the earth itself:

Keep those fingers, those toes, and nosing little noses

Those big beady eyes and that insatiable greedy desire

Away from these chiseled halls and our precious metals

For if you come seeking riches that were never yours

Thief, this we promise, a deadly curse upon your fingers

And like [King Midas](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Midas) before you, to die by all that glitters.

“Hagrid,” Holly gave a small squeak and darted to catch up to him, grabbing onto the hem of his shirt. “But I don’t have any gold, um—”

“Course you do,” Hagrid chuckled. He had to bend slightly so that he didn’t scrape his head along the ceiling. “You didn’t think your parents would’ve left you with nothing, did you?”

_Yes, actually._

Holly couldn’t believe her ears. She had money? The Dursleys had never given her so much as a quarter. The tunnel dipped and then opened onto a platform with an elevator. It was made of metal, an iron cage embedded into the ground. Again, she saw the warning written into the stone of the wall, staring at her through iron wrought doors until they sunk beneath the earth.

Blackness.

Five minutes passed.

How far down were they going?

And then a beam of light cut through the elevator, blinding Holly for a moment. She blinked, and gasped. It looked as if they had entered the center of a geode the size of a sports field. Jagged edges of purple and clear crystal cut sharp paths up the walls, until they enclosed the ceiling and dropped to form a chandelier. Large angular pools of silver could be seen on the end of the crystal stalactites, angled in odd directions, catching sunlight from holes in the ceiling and illuminating the entire space in clear white light.

The elevator landed on a platform that opened to a winding crystal staircase like different colored glass shards large enough for five people to walk abreast. A bannister of intricate metalwork followed the stairs down to the ground, and then back up to the other side where she could see another elevator station. The ground floor had been chipped and beaten until straight and smooth. And all along the walls were little stands, desks carved of assorted granite, marble, or metal, seated before doorways that opened into a black nothing beyond.

The creatures seated behind the desks, Holly realized with a start, were not human.

They had reached the bottom. “What—” she began to whisper, staring at one of the creatures as they walked past.

They were rather short and wore tailored three-piece suits of various colors. She would have thought them children were it not for their pointed ears that extended out, their sharp fingers with nails like knives, and small jagged teeth. One of them looked over at her and she saw that their eyes were solid black. She gripped Hagrid’s shirt a little tighter.

They joined a short line in front of a desk that looked made of ancient bronze.

“They’re goblins,” Hagrid murmured to her, bending down to whisper in her ear. “Awful greedy creatures, an’ worse than leprechauns if you try ter steal from ‘em, tha’s for sure. So be _polite_, an’ keep yer hands in yer pockets, all right?”

Holly nodded, and with some trepidation, let go of Hagrid’s shirt and shoved both her hands into the deep pockets of her oversize sweats. And then it was their turn.

“Name?” asked the goblin behind the desk, with a voice sharp as their teeth. They wore a handsome aqua blue suit with black dragon-scale patterned stitching.

“Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. And I’m escortin’ Miss Holly Potter.”

Holly waited to see if the goblin reacted to her name, but they gave no indication they had recognized it. She watched them scribble something into a giant ledger with a silver fountain pen.

“Business?”

“Well, I’m ‘ere on behalf of the Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore—” Hagrid dug in his coat pocket a moment and produced an envelope which he passed over to the goblin. The goblin cut the envelope expertly with one of their nails and began to read. Then it folded the paper and nodded for Hagrid to continue, “And Holly Potter is here to make a withdrawal from the Potter Vault.”

The goblin then fixed their black eyes on her, flashing a smile with too many teeth. “We will have to verify her identity, of course. This will be the first time she has come to the Potter vault. She will need to sign the agreement. Would Miss Potter please join me for a moment?”

Holly drew back behind Hagrid, peering at the creature from beneath her fringe of wayward hair.

“It won’t take but a moment. We need to put it in writing that she has claimed her inheritance, after all. Is that not what you wizards requested?”

Hagrid cleared his throat with a hacking cough. “All right, let’s go—”

“Confidentiality dictates a private audience with Miss Potter. Legality, you understand.”

“She’s just a kid—”

“Legality,” the goblin repeated, setting the fountain pen down and drawing their long-fingered hand into a steeple.

Holly stepped out from behind Hagrid. “I’ll go,” she interrupted, the hands hidden in her pockets balled into fists. She could do this, right? She didn’t need to hide anymore. “It’ll just be a moment, right?”

“Indeed,” the goblin said quietly, watching her with a quirk in its brow.

Hagrid hesitated and then nodded. “Oh, all righ’ then—when yer done, jus’ wait fer me here, kay?” He gave another eye-crinkling smile, and Holly took a deep breath. If Hagrid had insisted she would have changed her mind. If he was letting her go with the goblin, this meant they weren’t dangerous, right?

The goblin gestured behind them into the darkened tunnel, and Holly swallowed, steeling herself before following. Just behind the hole, which she saw did in fact open to a large empty space void of light, was a tunnel that cut back into the mineshaft. She followed the goblin down another tunnel, took a left, and through a doorway into another crystalline chamber—this one much smaller, the size of a principal’s office and made of a beautiful blue-green Chrysocolla. The desk in here was also bronze, and there was a bronze bookcase behind, overflowing with large old leather-bound ledgers.

The goblin turned around after she followed it inside the office. Holly realized she was a few inches taller than the creature.

“Miss Potter,” the goblin began, putting their hands behind their back. “Are you at all familiar with goblin customs?”

Holly shook her head. “You’re the first I’ve ever met,” she admitted. The way the light bounced off the walls and hit the goblin’s black eyes gave off an iridescent shine. Now that she’d noticed, she kept tilting her head to catch it again.

“What are you doing?” the goblin asked after a moment, staring at her.

“Your eyes,” Holly said, still moving. “They sort of—shine.”

The goblin didn’t say anything, watching her blankly, so she went on.

“It’s very pretty.”

The goblin didn’t move for a breath, still as the stone around them. And then, they cracked another wide toothy smile—less sharp, than before. “You are most flattering, Miss Potter.” The goblin inclined their head in an unmistakable bow. “You may refer to this one as Griphook, Miss Potter.”

Holly bowed her head in reply, since that felt like the right thing to do. “Thank you, Griphook.”

Griphook straightened and strode around the desk, pulling a leather tome from somewhere beneath it. They dropped it onto the table with a dull thud, and as they began to flip through the pages, explained the nature of Goblin Gold[1]. Once they reached a page some two-thirds into the book, Griphook looked up.

“Before the untimely death of your parents, James Potter named you Heir Presumptive of the Potter Estate. As such, you are now the only remaining Potter heir and will inherit all existing wealth, land, and property. As you are still underage, the majority of your inheritance remains in the guardianship of Albus Dumbledore, who was named by both James Potter and Lily Potter, to this position. A generous allowance has been established to meet your needs, until you come of age, at which point the guardianship of Albus Dumbledore will cease. Do you have any questions?”

Holly took a moment to process this. “When am I considered _of age_?” she asked.

“The requested stipulation is upon your graduation of Hogwarts.”

She assumed that meant she would be either seventeen or eighteen by that time. But—Holly frowned. “Requested?” she repeated and Griphook brought their hands together.

“You pay attention, Miss Potter,” they said, peering at her intently now. “The goblins do not understand these restrictions to personal property. In our culture, a goblin female may claim their property any time after their first bleeding.” Griphook paused, nostrils flaring as they sniffed the air. “You are not yet of age.”

Holly wasn’t really sure what the goblin meant by _first bleeding_, and didn’t want to ask.

“As such, until that time, you are titled Heir Apparent of the Potter Estate and suggested a monthly stipend up to 100 galleons, and limited to spending a total of 3% of your wealth each year. Is this sufficient?”

Holly had no idea what a galleon was. “Is 100 galleons enough to buy all my Hogwarts equipment with?”

“Yes.” The goblin didn’t elaborate and Holly fidgeted slightly, still unsure _how_ much it was.

“How—how much is that in American dollars?”

The goblin raised his eyebrow. “The [exchange rate](https://www.reddit.com/r/harrypotter/comments/43qv9c/lets_talk_wizard_money_a_look_through_everything/) would put that total to about $2,500. Is that sufficient?”

Holly felt faint. “Yes, that’s sufficient.” She’d never had so much money in her life.

“Then I will ask that you sign here, indicating that you understand these terms,” Griphook said, spinning the book around and handing her the fountain pen. They pointed to a small line at the bottom of the page.

“What’s the rest of this say?” Holly asked, squinting at the calligraphy.

“It lists the stipulations as imposed by the Ministry of Magick, in agreement with the Great Compromise of 1904 and—” Griphook trailed off. Holly looked up and found them frowning down at the ledger. And then, they shut the book with a snap before Holly could sign it. “It is a wizard’s promise,” they explained, “Made for most wizards.”

_Most wizards?_

“You, Miss Potter have demonstrated a courtesy above that of most wizards,” Griphook went on, stowing the ledger back beneath the desk. “This one will offer you the Goblin Promise instead.”

“And… what is that?” Holly asked, dropping her voice as if they were discussing secrets. Which, perhaps they were.

Griphook gave a quiet chuckle, and said: “It is a promise to protect that with belongs to you, and lend to you that which belongs to us, as long as kind regard is given and returned from you to me.”

The words trickled down her arms in a wave of static. She could hear the spell in their meaning. “As long as kind regard is given and returned from you to me?” she repeated, and the goblin nodded.

“However,” Griphook said, and they met her eyes. “Once you pass on, what was yours will become ours.”

“So—meaning if I have any kids, they won’t inherit my wealth?”

“Correct, but they may make a Goblin Promise themselves and reclaim with blood what treasures are owed to them.”

Holly considered it. What if this was a trick and the goblin wanted to take all her money? _What if my parents made a Goblin Promise and this is just a test?_ The note of warning on the Gringotts wall sounded again in her head, and Holly did not want to take that which did not belong to her.

“Kind regard is a small price to pay,” she said at last. “I accept your Goblin Promise, Griphook.”

“Goblin promises are in blood,” Griphook said and Holly watched as the goblin balled their hand into a fist, pricking their palm with their nails until red pooled in their hand. Holly pulled her hands out of her pockets at last. She tried to cut her hand as Griphook had done, but her nails were too short.

“You may use this,” Griphook said after a moment of watching her, and they handed her a jagged shard of obsidian the size of a letter opener. “Do not cut too deep.”

Holly carefully drew the obsidian shard along a line in her palm, gritting her teeth. Griphook held their hand over the bronze desk, blood dripping onto the metal, and Holly followed suit. She watched their blood mix and as the two drips intertwined, they began to give off a glowing iridescence. Griphook cleared their throat again, and began to speak in a language[2] she didn’t know, but she watched as the pool of blood beneath them formed words for her to read along:

“What is yours, is mine—and what is mine, belongs to thee.

We will house your wares, your jewels, and your precious things

You may take, borrow or sell the metals and stones of the earth

As long as kind regard is given and returned from you to me

By this, we bestow a deadly curse upon your earthly treasures

And if any one should pluck your gold with sticky fingers

Like King Midas before them, will die by all that glitters.”

Griphook pressed their bloody hand flat against the bronze desk. “You must speak aloud the next words, in your language, and do as I do.”

Holly nodded and read the words that formed, a flutter of excitement building in her throat:

“What is yours, is mine—and what is mine, belongs to thee.

You may house my wares, my jewels, and my precious things

I can take, borrow or sell the metals and stones of the earth

As long as kind regard is given and returned from you to me

By this I accept a deadly curse upon my earthly treasures

Now if any, who should pluck my gold with sticky fingers

Like King Midas before them, will die by all that glitters.”

Holly pressed her palm on the desk, ignoring the stinging of her cut.

The blood began to shine, brighter and brighter until Holly blinked—and it vanished. The blood had gone. Griphook gave a satisfied nod and lifted their palm from the desk to show a perfect handprint in red. Holly checked— she had one too. And then, as she watched, the handprint sank into the metal, leaving nothing behind.

Griphook snapped their fingers and a clean white bandage appeared. They helped tie it around her palm. “Your monthly stipend will be procured. Unless you would like to see the Potter vault?”

Holly didn’t want to keep Hagrid waiting. “I can look at it another time, right?”

“Of course.” Griphook stepped around the desk and led the way back into the mineshaft. “The halls of Gringotts are open anytime to those protected by the Goblin Promise.” 

* * *

[1] It is a well-known fact that goblins jealously hoard their wealth and that any item made of goblin gold or crafted by goblin smiths always belongs to the goblin and never the wizard. They instead _lease_ their goods, for a lifetime price. Upon the death of the owner, the property rights revert back to the goblin smith or miner who created the object and their family. This resulted in many conflicts over the years between wizard and goblin kind, since man has long defined the ownership of objects though inheritance rather than craft. In order to come to a peaceful resolution, the two groups signed the Great Compromise of 1904 dictating that the goblins could manage and control Gringotts bank—including the regulation of inflation, investments, and currency exchange—if they agreed to house and protect the wealth of the wizards, along with their own.

[2] [Gobbledegook](https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Gobbledegook), the language of the goblins


	9. The Malfoys

All these years the Dursleys had pissed and moaned about providing even the most basic of necessities, and here she had an entire treasure trove to herself. What was this feeling that settled over her bones like ice and fire? It twisted in her gut like a knife. And, at the same time, calm broke against the rocks of her mind.

Holly wasn’t a freak after all.

She’d known. Somehow, she’d always known she deserved _better. _Maybe that was why the Dursleys really hated her. They had seen the cold disregard of her bottle-green eyes, the grimace of disgust as she picked at the ripped shirts they gave her. As if she were asking for so much.

_Assholes._

Even as she and Hagrid returned to the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, her ears strained to catch the sweet bells of coins clinking together. She had never heard such a sound. If her cousin ever found out—

_He would break my bones._

Hagrid ushered her toward a little oak house nestled against another building like a moss-covered boulder, with the name Madam Malkin’s before heading down the street for the Leaky Cauldron. His errand, he had told her, had taken him deep into the mines on one of their coal-carts and the experience had left him feeling sick—he would be back. Clothing took time.

When she had returned with Griphook, she had watched his beetle-black eyes dart down to the bandage wrapped around her hand. He hadn’t asked and she hadn’t offered.

Holly watched him go for a moment, noticing the way the crowd parted around the giant man like a school of fish fleeing a shark. Then, she looked back at the shop. Easy come, easy go—that was what they said about money, right?

The moment she stepped inside, a woman in a tailored sky blue dress out of the 50s appeared at her elbow—Madam Malkin, she presumed.

“Hogwarts?” Holly nodded. “Another one’s getting fitted now if you’ll just follow me.”

_Another student?_

She had no idea what to expect. She had a sudden hesitation, her step slowing as she followed Madam Malkin through a door. What were wizarding kids into? They probably didn’t have the same shows or sports. She was suddenly scared of getting it wrong. Holly looked up to see a boy across the room, standing on an adjustable wooden platform. A younger witch, also in blue, measured his arm with a white tape that moved wherever she directed it.

An air of propriety hung about his person, particularly in his white-blonde hair and sharp gray eyes. A sneer curled about his lips as he took in her ill-fitting clothes, her mess of short black hair. Holly stared right back at him and lifted her head.

_You’ve got a vault of gold; you are more than the rags you wear._

Holly looked up at Madam Malkin and cleared her throat. “I would also like some new casual wear,” she said, her tone soft. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the boy quirk his eyebrow, but did her best to ignore him.

“Of course, how about a summer dress?”

The dress she wore to church was Aunt Petunia’s oldest and ugliest one, with white cuffed lace that itched like mad. She had always wanted something she could say was pretty. “Yes, please.”

“What color would you like, dear?”

She hesitated. She had never had the option before. She heard the boy clear his throat and she glanced at him.

“Might I make a suggestion?” he asked. He had a bored, drawling sort of voice.

“I suppose so,” Holly said when he didn’t continue.

“Black is the safest color if you wish to remain impartial to a House. Though correct me if I’m wrong Madam Malkin, but you have a color that would accent their eyes nicely, don’t you think?”

“Why yes,” Madam Malkin said. “Let me show you some samples,” and she excused herself to the back for a moment.

Holly took off her shoes and went to stand atop her stool. She wrung her hands a moment, and then— “What did you mean by house?” she asked, glancing at the boy again.

He started to laugh. “Your _Hogwarts _House?” The sneer had come back. “You don’t know? I suppose you’re from one of _those_ muggle families, then.”

After years of listening to insults, she knew it when she heard one. Her eyes narrowed. “My parents are dead.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said, looking as if he did not care at all. “But they were wizards, weren’t they? Why didn’t they arrange to leave you with someone more—competent?”

“That’s a great question. I’ll ask them first chance I get,” she replied curtly.

Madam Malkin came back before the boy could reply. It was entertaining to watch his stunned expression as he realized what she’d said. His surprise faded and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Madam Malkin handed her a few patches of cloth and then threw a larger black sheet over her had and began to pin it to length.

It was softer than her T-shirt, glossy like satin or silk, and a beautiful forest green color with patches of large white flowers. Holly was in love with it at once. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “I’ll take it.”

“Maybe you’re headed for Slytherin after all.” At the look she shot the boy, he went on. “It’s one of four Hogwarts houses. The others are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff—red, blue, and yellow respectively. Your values and traits are used to determine which House you end up in.”

“Oh? And what sorts of traits do Slytherin’s have?”

The boy puffed out his chest. “Ambition, cunning, and a certain resourcefulness that the other houses can only dream of obtaining. My family has been in Slytherin for generations. I know where I’m going.”

She realized she didn’t know where her parents had been sorted. “And, the others?” she asked, softly.

“Well, the way my father puts it, everyone who has got a spark of intelligence ends up a Ravenclaw, all the brazen idiots end up Gryffindor, and everyone else gets Hufflepuff.”

_So…the nerds, jocks, and quiet ones._

“And clearly, Slytherin is best.” She’d meant it as a joke, but the boy gave a fervent nod. She thought she saw Madam Malkin trade a look with her assistant. Not a widespread opinion, then.

“You know, if you need shoes,” the boy went on, and she caught his eyes lingering on her taped sneakers, “Magnificent Hermes. Tell them Malfoy recommended them to you.”

“Yeah? Thank you.” She regarded him. Madam Malkin went around to her back. “So, it’s Mr. Malfoy, then?”

He dipped his head. “Draco Malfoy.” He looked up expectantly.

She had a moment of misgiving. Hagrid had not told her why everyone at the Leaky Cauldron had known her name. But, this boy—Draco Malfoy—she had a feeling he would tell her at once.

“Holly Potter.”

She felt Madam Malkin’s hands pause as they pinned material to the middle of her back. The other assistant came to an abrupt standstill, and she watched as Malfoy’s mouth fell open. After a moment, he seemed to collect himself and time resumed.

“You’re Holly Potter?”

“Just Holly is fine.” She felt weirdly satisfied that she had managed to knock him off balance.

“But what are you _wearing?”_

“Haven’t you ever read _The Prince and the Pauper?”_ she said, softly. He didn’t need to know the real reason.

He stared at her with a mixture of incredulity and surprise in his silver eyes. “Is that so?” He paused, and then his gaze dropped to the green material in her hands. He broke into laughter, “Holly Potter said that Slytherin is the best house, Father will never believe me. Can I persuade you to tell him, yourself?”

“By all means, persuade me.”

Malfoy looked momentarily befuddled. He hadn’t expected that answer. “Would—would you accept aid while shopping? We Malfoy’s know all the best products and where to get everything you would need for school.”

Holly hummed softly. “I suppose that _could_ be helpful. Would you mind if I asked you some questions?”

“Of course!” Malfoy said, “Father should be back any minute now. He went next door to buy my cauldron and Mother’s up the street looking at stationary. Did you come here alone, then?”

“I—” Holly began, but something in her peripheral vision moved and she turned to see Hagrid standing outside the front window, holding two large ice cream cones. “I came with him.”

“Him?” Malfoy repeated, turning around to look. “My word— Who is that?”

“Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts,” Holly said, thinking of the way Dumbledore had introduced him.

“Oh, I’ve heard of him.” He seemed like he wanted to say something else before thinking better of it. “Well, I’m sure _he_ wouldn’t mind it if you joined us. I’d be surprised if he could fit into half the shops.”

“I’ll ask him.”

The assistant working on Malfoy finished[1]. “I’ll wait for you outside,” Malfoy said with a nod in her direction before he left. Holly heard the door of the shop open and shut a minute later.

“And, that’s you done, as well. Did you want to change into your new dress?”

“Yes,” Holly said at once.

She stepped off the stool and allowed Madam Malkin to steer her into a small changing room near the back. She closed the curtain behind her, and alone, Holly took a deep breath. She tried and failed to look at herself in the mirror, catching glimpses as she peeled off Dudley’s shirt and pants—skin taunt over thin extremities, splashes of a vibrant purple hue like brushstrokes against canvas, skidded knees littered with scabs.

Dressed, she finally appraised her features, turning side to side. The [dress](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/317011261270830766/) had sleeves that stopped just above her elbows and reached just below her knees. She had never worn anything tailored, and for once her small hips were visible. She looked—like a _girl_. Even with her mop of unruly black hair. And the rich luscious green; her eyes caught the color and glittered, bright and _happy_—

Holly giggled to herself and spun once more, just to watch the material dance. Then, she picked up her old clothes and stepped out. Madam Malkin and her assistant both nodded approvingly when she returned and Holly grinned back.

“It’s perfect,” she breathed. “Thank you, can you also wrap these for me?” she asked, handing over her old clothes. Madam Malkin inspected the clothes with something akin to disgust but nodded all the same. “And uh—can I order a few more?”

By the time Holly left, she was balancing five parcels wrapped in brown paper.

Hagrid was in conversation with a man she could only assume was Malfoy’s father. He had the same fair hair, long and carefully pulled back, and the same gray eyes. But his were shrewd and cold. From the frown tugging at Hagrid’s lips and the uncertainty in the slump of his shoulders, Holly suspected she knew what they were discussing. As she neared, Malfoy’s father turned to her and something like pleasant surprised flitted across his face. The younger Malfoy looked as well, and she watched a wide smirk spread across his features. Hagrid’s black eyes went wide.

“You clean up nice, Miss Potter,” Malfoy said, taking a step toward her. “This is my father, Lucius Malfoy,” he went on.

Hagrid quietly took the packages from her arms as Lucius Malfoy stepped toward her. “Draco has been telling me the most interesting story,” and he stretched out his hand. “Miss Potter, how lovely to make your acquaintance.”

Holly extended her hand. It wasn’t a handshake like she’d been expecting, instead he tilted her hand upward and brushed a soft kiss against her knuckles. He let go as soon as she’d registered what had happened, stepping back.

“The—the pleasure is all mine,” she managed. That was what they always said in those regency movies Mrs. Figg let her watch. That feeling flashed within her again, flames licking at her veins. She had never been respected, not like this. Mr. Malfoy gave the softest incline of his head and turned back to Hagrid.

“As I was saying, we would be delighted to have you and Miss Potter join us.”

“You ain’t foolin’ me, Lucius,” Hagrid snapped back, and Holly pulled a double-take. “I’m under strict orders—Dumbledore’s orders—to keep an eye on Holly ‘ere and I’m not ‘bout to let ‘er run off with you lot.”

Holly felt nearly as affronted as Mr. Malfoy looked. “Hagrid,” she started but he spoke over her.

“You don’t know who yer talkin’ to Holly,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “They was with the lot that went after yer parents!”

_Then why aren’t they in prison?_

“As far as I am aware,” Lucius Malfoy said in a voice that chilled the air like ice, “this nation operates under the assumption of innocent until proven guilty. What’s the phrase you like to throw around? Ah yes—prejudice.”

“Now, you listen ‘ere—”

“Come, Draco,” said Mr. Malfoy, a dark warning in his tone now. “Why don’t we give them a moment to discuss it?”

Hagrid huffed and after giving Holly a soft nudge with his foot, took her out of earshot. He handed her one of the ice creams—raspberry with chocolate and nuts.

“You don’ know the Malfoys like I do,” Hagrid began in an undertone. “They’re dangerous people, Holly.”

She paused, considering his words carefully. She did not think Hagrid would lie. But, “All the more reason to join them,” she whispered back, meeting his eyes. “Isn’t it a bad idea to make enemies of dangerous people?”

Hagrid blinked, and his lips tightened. “Yer sounding like one of ‘em,” he grumbled. “I should’a never left. Trust me, it’s not worth tanglin up with ‘em. They’re tainted and they’ll get you in trouble!”

_That’s what Dudley told everyone at school about me._

Something cold and sharp settled in her stomach. “No,” she cut across, and though her voice was soft it pierced the air with a finality that sent the rest of Hagrid’s words stumbling. “I’ll make up my own mind about them,” she hissed, and she thought she saw a flicker of fear in Hagrid’s eyes though she couldn’t fathom why. She forced herself to pause and take a breath before continuing.

Hagrid’s face looked ready to crumple, and he had been nothing but good to her.

“Hagrid,” she began again, shaking her head. “Malfoy—Draco helped me find this pattern,” she said gesturing to her dress. “You saw what I was wearing before, and look,” she held the sleeve up to her eyes. “It’s almost a perfect match. He even offered to take me to a place to get new shoes,” and she pointed at her taped trainers.

Hagrid heaved a heavy sigh. Instead of answering, he gave his ice cream a few licks. She pressed her advantage, “And, I mean, if you’re with me then what’s the worst that could happen? I’m going to run into him at school and I don’t want to make an enemy before I even get there.”

“Alright—alright,” Hagrid grunted, holding up his other hand to stop her from continuing. “I don’t like it but—” and he looked somewhat sheepish, “And yer right, it does match yer eyes. They look a lot like yer mum’s.”

“Really?” she asked, brightening. She had her mother’s eyes? She reached forward and slipped her small hand into his, feeling rough calluses on his skin. It was easy, then, to lead him back to the Malfoy’s—both of which were watching them in rapt attention.

“We would be honored to join you,” she said, inclining her head to the pair of them. “I think Magnificent Hermes would be a fine place to start, wouldn’t you agree?”

[1] The pinned clothing is then removed by magick and used to create a pattern. Each pin has a spell on it that combine together, which the seamsmaster uses to base the dimensions of the clothing. Each article of clothing is constituted in a few minutes by magick, and a good seamsmaster keeps a record of their customer’s measurements. The longest part of the process is that every length needs to be measured and inspected by each of the five senses prior to construction. Apprentices study for years to learn how to manipulate thread into different stitching styles.


	10. The Reason Why

Malfoy’s commentary as they collected her school supplies was actually quite illuminating, if pompous and overbearing at times. Her new black shoes clicked on the road as she strode along, and she worked hard to control the grin that threatened to overtake her face. She would glance back, every now and then, at Hagrid who had fallen into silent step just behind them. He would manage a pained smile in reply and she’d turn back around, now with a twinge of guilt.

But she wanted to learn about the wizarding world, and Hagrid didn’t know where to begin.

When they passed Quality Quidditch Supply, Malfoy took a sharp detour and proceeded to give her a lengthy history of the sport[1]. She had to admit; she loved the idea of wind in her hair and nothing but the open sky. Maybe one day.

She wanted to ask about _herself_ but didn’t want to broach the subject in front of Hagrid. He had shut her down once before, after all. She got her chance in Flourish and Blots when Hagrid wandered over to the magical creature section and she had Draco and Lucius alone. She glanced once at Hagrid’s retreating back, cleared her throat, and then asked in a delicate undertone, “So, perhaps you can tell me exactly why everyone knows who I am?”

For the second time that day, Draco’s mouth fell open. Even Lucius looked taken aback. She could see some very fast thinking going on behind his gray eyes. His son glanced up at him and Lucius said, his voice controlled and quiet, “Has no one told you?”

“If they had, would I have asked?” Holly countered, raising her eyebrow. “Hagrid seems to think that he’s not the right person to tell me.”

“This—is a conversation that can’t be had in a few minutes amidst bookshelves,” Lucius went on in the same tone. “Though I am appalled that no one has informed you. It’s hardly a secret.”

“And yet, no one will tell me,” Holly narrowed her eyes. “Doesn’t seem right that I don’t know what _I’m_ famous for.”

Draco smirked. “She’s got a point, Father.”

“I’m sure that blundering oaf will get around to it eventually, however,” Lucius said, glancing around and with a wave of his hand the bustle of the patrons muted. “Prevents eavesdroppers,” he explained at her quizzical expression. “I suppose I can give you the abbreviated version. You are aware your parents were murdered, yes?”

Holly nodded. “Yes, by Tom Riddle. Professor Dumbledore told me.”

“Did he?” the controlled tone was melting, a glint in his silver eyes. “Did he tell you how the Dark Lord was defeated?”

_Dark Lord?_

“We don’t really know, do we? I mean, he just vanished, right?” Dumbledore had told her that no one really knew what happened that night.

“We do know he tried to kill you and failed.”

Holly could tell he was trying to say something without words. He and Draco exchanged knowing expressions, and Holly frowned. “What are you saying, exactly?”

Lucius’s lip curled. “He cast the same killing curse upon you,” and she saw his eyes travel to her hairline, to the lightning bolt scar just visible through her hair, “and yet, you did not die. No one has ever survived the spell before. In fact, it rebounded and he died instead. As such, you are credited for the defeat of the Dark Lord.”

Holly didn’t have a chance to respond to this statement, for Hagrid returned. She saw Lucius casually wave his hand and sound resumed, looking as if they had been discussing charms rather than dark wizards and murder. She caught Draco watching her, trying to read something in her face. She paused and then winked, before greeting Hagrid with a smile though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

So, she had survived when no one else had. Everything made sense now. Though, that was a strange thing to be famous for, surely? She hadn’t done anything. What could a one-year-old do? The entire idea was absurd. And yet, from the glances the Malfoy’s shot her as they paid for their books and continued down the street, she saw that they believed.

Had they not considered that this Dark Lord, Tom Riddle had messed up the spell? That was surely more believable than the idea of her defeating him. Dumbledore had said no one was there that night to explain what happened—weren’t they all just guessing then? Hagrid had claimed that the Malfoys had been involved with Tom Riddle—did they know something no one else did? Maybe. But, they had looked speculative and uncertain to her, just trying to figure out what happened like everyone else.

When Narcissa Malfoy joined them, it seemed natural to separate. Without needing to discuss it, neither party wanted to intrude upon the other’s business any longer. As they walked away, Holly wondered what Draco had hoped to discover by inviting her along—had he just wanted to inspect the _Hero_ of the wizarding world, see if there was any merit to the claims? Did he find what he was looking for?

He had kissed her knuckles in farewell, all formal and polite. “I look forward to seeing you again at school,” he had said, and she had returned the favor. But though she had enjoyed his company, she’d felt he was a little too pretentious for his own good. She wouldn’t consider him a friend.

Not yet.

“Is that everything we need?” she asked Hagrid once they were alone, meandering slowly down the road back up to the Leaky Cauldron.

“Jus’ about,” Hagrid said and he pulled a sheet of parchment from one of his deep pockets. “We got your potion-making stuff, yer recommended books and yer uniform.”

She still had quite a lot of money left. “Can we go back to Flourish and Blots?” she asked.

“Fer what?”

“I want some books on magical society, you know, there’s just so much to learn,” she said with a shrug. Hagrid didn’t mind, and they turned back down the street.

Holly didn’t want to be caught off guard again—she had never been _allowed_ to succeed with the Dursleys. The first time she’d gotten higher marks than Dudley, he’d cried that she had cheated and her Uncle had made sure she couldn’t sit comfortably for a week. But Dudley wasn’t going to Hogwarts, and Holly refused to be the laughing stock. She was _famous_, she had a reputation to maintain, and she had so much to learn.

Back in Flourish and Blots, she asked the shopkeeper if he had any recommendations for students from muggle backgrounds. Both _Wizards and Muggles: a Study in Etiquette _and _The Muggleborns guide to Wizardry_ sounded like solid investments. She also bought _A Compendium of Wizarding High Society_ and _The Wizengamot, Ministry, and the Law_, as well as_ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and lastly, _A History of Magick. _

“There, now that’s everything,” Holly said with a broad grin as they exited the shop a second time. She was going to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she was famous, and had (possibly) defeated the Dark Lord. There was nothing but good in her future…

…It was surely too good to be true.

* * *

[1] Quidditch in Cascadia is a competitive obstacle race that is played on broomsticks. Events are played in two rounds of three laps, with a brief pause in between. Originally, the pause was to allow medi-witches to heal injuries. Now they are used for entertainment spectacles and to allow racers a moment to plan. On the last lap, the golden snitch is released at the finish line, and the first one to catch it wins. The game starts, always, at solar noon.


	11. The Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning, Child Abuse

The Dursleys didn’t stop her from taking her new things up to her room, so whatever Hagrid had said to them seemed to have worked. Or maybe it because Hagrid had barely managed to fit inside the door and had towered in the entry hall, his sheer size enough to intimidate them. Still, it was with some anxiety that she watched Hagrid leave Privet Drive.

She turned back around to find the rest of the Dursley household staring at her. She braced herself.

“This is what’s going to happen,” Uncle Vernon began, and Holly dropped her eyes to the carpet. Her uncle took eye contact as an act of defiance and she didn’t want to give him a reason to burn her books. “You are going to stay in your room. You will not talk about any of your _unnaturalness_ and if I see so much as…as a piece of paper with your _freakishness_ on it I will burn it—is that understood?”

And she knew he would too. “Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

“That—_thing _told us a school bus will pick you up at the transit center on the first of September,” and he paused as though waiting for confirmation but Holly knew him well enough by now. He just liked to pause for dramatic effect and _tempt_ her into speaking out of turn. “So, we will leave from here at nine sharp, don’t expect me to remind you. If you’re not ready, you’re not going.”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

He grunted. “Now go to your room and _stay there.”_

Holly didn’t need telling twice. She disappeared up the stairs, closing the door behind her before collapsing on her bed. All in all, probably one of the better conversations she’d had with her uncle. At least being sentenced to her room had its benefits.

She read as much as she could, and upon a suggestion in _The Muggleborns Guide to Wizardry_, practiced writing with her quill. It was a lot harder than she expected, and she was determined to have _legible_ handwriting. She’d get a beautiful flowing script even if it meant cramping her hand.

But alas, she couldn’t hide in her room forever. Halfway through August, Aunt Petunia summoned her and put her to work gardening, weeding, and trimming the flowerbeds. Holly used the time testing her memory, remembering paragraphs she had read the night before. She would imagine that the roses were venomous tentacula plants and take care not to let the thorns prick her, or she would stare at the hedge and wonder whether she could influence it like the trees around Diagon Alley.

In all, she felt confident in her progress by the end of the month. She had at least perused all of her textbooks and knew enough now about wizarding culture not to make a fool of herself. Again. But as she washed the dishes three days before she was to leave, things took a turn—for the normal.

Holly had carefully emptied the sink of glass before going to drain the potatoes she’d been instructed to boil for dinner. But of course, just as she tipped the pot, that’s when Dudley decided to add his half-drunk glass of ice water.

“Wait—!” she tried to say, but it was too late. She heard the crack of shattering glass as hot met ice and _cringed._

“Mum!” Dudley called gleefully. “Holly’s broken one of the cups!”

“You put _ice water_ in the sink as I was draining potatoes,” Holly replied, shooting him a furious glare. “It’s not fucking magic.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Dudley went chalk white and scrambled from the room, stuttering, and Aunt Petunia who had arrived _just in time_ to hear every word backhanded her across the face. Cheek stinging, Holly stared at the linoleum floor as shrieks filled her ears.

She was Miss Holly Potter, Heir Apparent to the Potter Estate, which her reading informed her included a seat on the Wizengamot when she turned seventeen. She had enough wealth and power to her name to drown the Dursleys in litigations for _years_, and yet nothing had changed.

She dimly registered that Aunt Petunia had screamed for her to clean _it_ up. She began to pick up the shards of glass, a tremor in her fingers. Were her hands shaking? She felt numb, dread coiling in the pit of her stomach, a vicious monster with teeth and claws. She dropped a shard and smears of brilliant crimson hit the sink. How like ink splotches. But she couldn’t stop, Aunt Petunia might knock her against the shards—she’d done it before. Holly used a paper towel to pick up the smallest pieces and glass dust. The minute she’d thrown it away, Aunt Petunia seized her ear and dragged her up the stairs.

“Now you stay in your room until your uncle gets home, _freak!”_

With the door slammed shut behind her, Holly sunk to the floor. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she repeated, cradling her bleeding fingers. She should have kept her mouth shut, for just three more days. She should have ignored him, she should have—

_I should’ve known._

She heard it when her uncle came back home. His thunderous steps shook her floor, and she scrambled out of the way of the door before he threw it open with such force that it banged back against the wall.

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT USING THAT WORD IN MY HOUSE?” he roared, belt in hand, and she stared at the carpet stain near his shoes.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry—”

But it didn’t matter that she didn’t mean it, or that it was a joke, or that she hadn’t even done anything. She didn’t know any spells yet, and that meant he didn’t have anything to fear as he grabbed her by the collar. He never held back, and there was no reason for him to do so this time.

By the time he left, Holly was sure some of the welts left behind from his belt were bleeding. She remained where she’d collapsed, at the foot of her bed, until he’d slammed the door behind him. Only then did she sit up. Her back seared with fire and she gritted her teeth.

“This is the last time,” she said as if anyone were listening. “This is the last time I let them do this to me,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

She hated them. She hated this feeling in her chest, this sensation of a knife separating her ribs. _Why?_ Why had she let herself imagine that things would be okay now? That maybe, just maybe, the Dursleys would let her be. That maybe she wouldn’t be so damn _scared_.

“Once I leave, I’m never coming back,” she went on, the words giving her enough strength to crawl into bed. She was Holly Potter and she had survived a killing curse no one else had. She was _famous!_ What would the Wizarding World think of their precious savior if they could see her now?

Holly curled up and focused on the heartbeat of the house. She wanted it to be the last time she ever heard it.


	12. The Magic School Bus

On the first of September, Holly had all her things packed in her [travel luggage](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/4123YeLZr8L.jpg) and next to the door by the crack of dawn. She had on her fraying gray backpack from last year with a notebook, a change of clothes, and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ to read on the ride. She stood in her least ripped T-shirt, sleeves rolled back four times just so she could see her hands, and a belt wrapped twice around her middle to hold her jeans up, duct-taped sneakers held in her hands.

The Dursleys didn’t approve of shoes in the house.

Five minutes to nine o’clock Uncle Vernon came out of the kitchen and barely glanced at her as he threw open the door. Holly grabbed the handle of the trunk and dragged it as fast she could out the door and down the steps, refusing to let the aching pain in her back slow her down.

By the time she got to the car, Uncle Vernon already had the engine running and the back open. Holly shoved her luggage inside, and after a breathless apology to Hedwig, along with her owl. The minute she’d climbed into the back seat, Uncle Vernon hit the gas and she scrambled to put her seatbelt on. The entire ride was silent. Not even the radio played. All Holly could hear was her heart in her throat, her whole body tensed as if expecting impact at every turn. Then, the car skidded to a halt and the locks opened.

Holly was out of the car and to the back in a single breath. She grabbed her luggage with shaking hands. Holly had half of it out when the car began to move and rest slid out with a loud _thunk_ onto the pavement and one of the wheels landed onto her right foot. Holly swore and shoved it off; glaring ruefully after the silver company car as it turned the bend, the trunk snapping shut after an aggressive tap on the brakes.

“Good riddance,” she hissed after it.

Now limping, Holly rolled her luggarge into the transit station, making a very necessary stop at the lady's bathroom. She knew the Statue of Secrecy wasn’t going to approve, but there was no way she was going to be caught dead on the bus in anything but her Hogwarts robes. She trashed the oversize garbage she had worn for far too long in the trash bin on her way out and lifted her head.

“Here we go,” she whispered, adjusting the collar of her school robes and making her way across the street to the [clock tower](https://www.google.com/maps/uv?hl=en&pb=!1s0x5499d794c3e0f045%3A0x516f203f7217414b!2m22!2m2!1i80!2i80!3m1!2i20!16m16!1b1!2m2!1m1!1e1!2m2!1m1!1e3!2m2!1m1!1e5!2m2!1m1!1e4!2m2!1m1!1e6!3m1!7e115!4shttps%3A%2F%2Flh5.googleusercontent.com%2Fp%2FAF1QipOFiGLc7L6MEmFklhtH3E7WKP8hDDSUr842pVcc%3Dw260-h174-n-k-no!5syakima%20transit%20station%20-%20Google%20Search&imagekey=!1e10!2sAF1QipPHxnzxdP0UqqxkR_xd_kKvLwzd4i4Ed9PG0tHw).

It stood on the edge of the intersection, the name Transit Center written on a green sign just beneath a minimalistic clock design. The tower had four pillars providing a small amount of space directly beneath—the roof extended out to protect against the elements. Holly walked until she stood directly underneath. Hagrid had never mentioned the trick to getting onto the platform, she mused as she took a deep breath and pressed her palm for ten seconds to each pillar, starting from the east until she had touched them all. And as she lifted her palm from the last pillar, she began to sink into the ground, right through the stone, and the muggle world vanished from view. She didn’t want to imagine what might have happened if _The Muggleborns Guide to Wizardry_ hadn’t mentioned it[1].

Nice guy, but completely useless.

Concrete gave way to dirt, and then it opened into a large passage—mirroring the station from above. And there, parked against the curb, was a large bright yellow school bus with the name, Hogwarts School District written in black block lettering. For the first time since Diagon Alley, she smiled. There were a handful of other families on the platform, all biding farewell. She saw one family hug their daughter.

Holly took a deep breath and walked with purpose.

She wasted no time getting onto the bus. And as she walked inside, her jaw dropped—it had been magically extended and given ample overhead space for luggage. The seats were cushioned like an expensive charter and had more legroom than she’d ever seen before. At the very back of the bus, she could see a single-person bathroom. Noise and conversation perfumed the air; a large group of boys all with flaming orange hair were seated near the back, talking over the seats—a girl with cornrow braids tied into a high ponytail and warm brown skin was blowing giant colorful bubbles into the air that popped like a firecracker. A black boy was trading cards with another boy with sandy hair and talking loudly about baseball.

But as she began to walk down the aisle, heads turned in her direction and the sound dissipated. Holly tried not to notice, she walked until she found an empty seat on the sixth row. She saw owls and cats and other animals up on the luggage rack and then bent to pick up her luggage to stow it above her, struggling with the weight for a few moments until someone tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped and turned around.

It was one of the boys with flaming ginger hair. He looked a little sheepish when he saw he had spooked her. “Want some help?” he offered, flashing a smile. A second later, another boy appeared next to him and Holly realized they each shared the same freckled face. Twins. They were both stocky, though still much taller than her, and she suspected older as well.

“Yes, please,” she panted, moving aside so that he could grab one of the corners. Together, they lifted the suitcase, and she collapsed onto the seat. “Thanks,” she said.

“Course!” The boy sat on the edge of the seat across her, his twin sweeping around to the seat behind. “I’m George Weasley, and that’s my brother Fred.”

From behind, Fred Weasley cleared his throat and she looked up to see him incline his head in a mockery of a bow. She found herself smiling.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Holly Potter.”

If she had thought the bus was quiet before, it was nothing compared to the silence that settled over it now.

“Did I hear that right?” she heard someone whisper, and Holly sunk down into her seat.

She could feel people craning their heads to get a look at her. She wanted to snap at them that she wasn’t an _animal in a zoo_ there for them to gawk at, but her throat wasn’t working. She hadn’t done anything to deserve fame and it clung to her skin like tar. She had been reading _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and found herself mentioned there. It had been all conjecture and assumption and she had crossed out the passage in black ink.

_I should have used a fake name. Stupid._

“Have you really got the scar?” she heard someone call, and she bit her lip before looking up again. Nearly everyone had gotten to their feet—someone was standing on their chair in the back to get a look at her. She felt her face warm.

“Oh, stop it—can’t you see that you’re making her uncomfortable?” came another voice. The girl who had been saying goodbye to her parents on the platform had come aboard. She had handsome umber skin and bushy black hair that extended curls at least a foot in every direction. She had bright brown eyes and rather large front teeth. She set her luggage down on the ground—a baby blue travel case—and came over like a mother hen shooing everyone away.

Fred and George Weasley laughed. “Mustn’t crowd the celebrity!” Fred teased in a loud voice. But he sat back down into his seat all the same. “Just wanna get to know her a little, is all.”

“Yeah, we got her trapped here for the next three hours. What else are we supposed to do? Fiddle our thumbs?”

Holly looked over at him, and her eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to get to know me,” she said in a low undertone, “you want to poke me and see how lifelike I am.”

Fred began to splutter incoherently.

“Well, I _personally_ don’t care,” said the black boy, two seats behind her. “Not really sure who you are, anyway.”

“You don’t know who Holly Potter is, Dean?”

“I think I just said that, didn’t I?”

Holly groaned and looked over at the girl who had come to her rescue. They made eye contact and Holly scooted down so she was against the window, feeling like she wouldn’t mind this girl as a buffer for the bus ride.

If anything, this made the other girl’s _day._ With a blinding grin, she brought her luggage over and Holly helped her stash it overhead.

“I’m Hermione Granger,” the said girl once they sat down, formally extending her hand. Holly shook it. And then Hermione was talking, fast and excited. “I didn’t even know I was a witch until I got my letter—this is a dream come true! I’ve already read all my books of course, but there’s just so much, you know? I’ve heard that those who come from muggle families can have a harder time adjusting, but then I’ve never really fit in anywhere.” She paused and then shook herself, “I hope I’m prepared enough. I haven’t tried any spells yet, have you tried any?”

Holly shook her head. “Not yet.”

Hermione looked at her, and Holly saw her eyes focus on the piece of scotch tape that kept her glasses together. Dudley had broken her glasses more times than she could count. “Do you mind if I fix your glasses? I read a spell that says it’s just for this.”

Holly took off her glasses and handed them to her. Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out a ballpoint pen, scribbling a design into her palm. Then, she held the glasses carefully in her hand, making sure that the taped portion was in between her palms and over the drawing. “It’s a repair rune,” she said to Holly. She took a deep breath. “_Oculus Reparo,”_ she whispered, lips brushing over the top of her knuckles.

And Holly watched the tape fall away; the metal stitched itself back together. “Wow! Thank you, Miss Granger,” she said, as Hermione handed them back and she tried them on. For once, they fit her face.

Hermione’s cheeks darkened. “Oh, just Hermione, please.” She brought a hand to curl a strand of her bushy hair.

“Then you better just call me Holly.”

“Can we call you Holly too, then?”

Holly turned around to see that Fred and George had somehow taken over the seat behind them, and it was clear from the way their elbows were propped on the seat that they had been listening to every word. Hermione blustered in reply and chided them for eavesdropping, but Holly began to smile. They had such gentle expressions—crinkles and laugh lines about their faces, brightness in their eyes. It was so different than her cousin and his friends… friendly, inviting.

_You can call me anything you want, except Freak._

“Yeah, okay.”

The twins high-fived each other.

Ahead, the bus driver had returned. She was an older woman, with tight curls of bright orange hair. The bus kicked into gear, a soft rumbling purr vibrating down the metal frame, the familiar sound of an airbrake releasing and the door closed. And then, they were off.

“Next stop, Ellensburg! Or rather, a little way outside of it,” Fred said, with a sage dip of his head.

Holly turned around in her seat. “How long have you been going to Hogwarts?”

“This’ll be our third year, right George?”

“Yeah, though our younger brother Ron is starting this year too.”

Hermione caved and turned around too. Holly leaned her back against the window, curling her legs under her. Her shoes remained on the floor. The cool metal felt nice on her sore muscles.

“What’s your favorite class?” Hermione asked.

“Oooh, does Quidditch count?” Fred laughed. “Though, Charms isn’t too bad. Professor Flitwick is a great teacher. So is Professor McGonagall, she does Transfiguration but that’s a hard class in any case.”

“Transfiguration sounds fascinating!” Hermione exclaimed. “I can’t wait to take everything.”

“Yeah? What about you, Holly?”

Holly considered a moment before replying. “Probably Potions and Herbology. Though I really liked the look of Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

From the significant looks that Fred and George just exchanged, she was about to hear bad news. “Well, no clue who’s gonna teach Defense.”

“It’s someone different every year,” George finished.

“And Potions—well, let’s just say Professor Snape isn’t the friendliest.”

“Not at all. Favors the Slytherins, he does.”

Hermione frowned. “What? But he’s a teacher!”

“Well, everyone tends to favor their own house,” Fred shrugged.

“Him especially,” George added.

“What—what house do you think you are?” Hermione asked Holly. “I haven’t been able to decide. I read that Ravenclaws are smart and Gryffindors are brave—”

“And Hufflepuffs are lousy and Slytherins are evil,” Fred finished, rolling his eyes. “You can’t believe nothin’ you read about that, honest.”

Hermione stared at him, affronted. Holly, however, thought that sounded accurate if her conversation with Draco Malfoy was evidence of anything. “I don’t know,” she said. “What’s the point in worrying about it? They all sound fine to me.”

_I want to see what all the houses are really about first._

“I suppose,” said George, giving her a curious look.

“Ooh, I’m just so excited,” Hermione said, clapping her hands. “My folks never believed in magick until Professor McGonagall showed up at our door. And now I get to go learn how to do it!”

“Same here,” Holly said, and both Fred and George did a double take. Even Hermione looked surprised.

“You—didn’t know you had magick?” she asked, staring at Holly. “But, you’re Holly Potter!”

“My Aunt and Uncle are muggles,” Holly said quietly.

“Oh.”

“You—weren’t raised with wizards?” Fred asked, thunderstruck. “You don’t know—anything?”

“I _didn’t _know,” Holly corrected. “I bought several books to get caught up to speed.”

“Oh!” Hermione said softly, her eyes bright again. “Which books?”

Over the next hour, Holly learned several things about Hermione Granger. Her parents were dentists, she was muggleborn, and she _loved_ to read. She had bought every book Holly had and a dozen more. She had read all of them. And she could recite entire passages from memory, down to the page number. Once Holly got her talking, she didn’t stop—and Holly was happy to listen. The scenery outside changed from underground passages to wide open sky and rolling hills and desert steppe.

They pulled off to a dirt access road a few miles before Ellensburg and into a little stop with a single building. Several students stepped out for a bathroom break. They picked up two others, older students that marched directly to the back of the bus. After that, Fred and George vacated their seats, and the sandy-haired and black boy took their spot.

“I’m Seamus Finnegan,” said the sandy-haired boy as the bus started off again. He had a light Irish accent. “And this is Dean Thomas. He didn’t know he was a wizard before the letter either.”

_I guess everyone is eavesdropping then._

“Turns out my Dad was a wizard,” Dean Thomas said, scratching the back of his head. “Mom didn’t think to mention it after she got remarried.”

“She hid it from you?” Holly asked. So she hadn’t been the only one. That was comforting to hear.

“Didn’t mean it outta harm,” Dean said quickly. “I don’t think Dad ever told her, and then he vanished and she moved on.”

“As you do,” Seamus said, patting his back. “My mum’s a witch, surprised Dad after they got married. Bit of a nasty shock, to tell you the truth.”

Shortly after that, Seamus and Dean leaned back and Holly got snippets of a conversation about sports teams. Hermione opened one of her books, _Hogwarts A History_, and Holly was happy to follow suit with her own. Hermione opened a bag of potato chips and set it between them, smiling and offering some to her. Holly, who had never been offered food from anyone before, decided she would remain this girl’s friend until the day she died.

The bus made two more stops, once in the middle of nowhere off the highway, and again at another underground station. At that one, the bus driver suggested everyone change into their robes now, and everyone who needed to disembarked to change. And then, they were driving through thick forest trees. Holly put down her book to stare out the window instead. They went through a small town she missed the name of, and up higher and higher, toward mountain peaks in the distance. Outside, an orange sunset sunk behind a forested peak, transforming the sky into oil painting.

They kept driving. And driving. They had passed the last small town—if you could call it that, with a single restaurant and convenience store—nearly half an hour ago. She watched the golden hour turn into blue and then; finally, the bus slowed, and came to a stop with the sharp release of brakes.

“Please leave all your belongings on the bus, it will be brought to the school separately,” announced the bus driver. “First years, meet near the giant cedar in the corner of the lot.”

* * *

[1] Prior to the advent of automobiles in America, those in Cascadia used the existing trains created by Muggles in the push Westward. It was common practice to stowaway, and hop off before it reached the station however the number of resulting injuries quickly deterred all but the most daring. However, as coal dropped in popularity and trains were redirected or decommissioned entirely, vehicles turned into the main mode of transportation. Unable to come up with another way to safely transport wizarding children from all over Cascadia, Hogwarts purchased a fleet of 72-passenger buses and retrofitted them for their needs. The buses from the high north and far south leave the night before, traveling all night, in order to reach Hogwarts by the opening feast on September 1st. However, though the buses are fairly incognito on the highway, the Statue of Secrecy created a series of underground stations, often built below existing ones, to allow for safe loading and unloading.


	13. The Cedar Tree

The bus had taken them to the start of some sort of trailhead. There were a few porta-potties some feet away at the end of the parking lot. Holly spotted the cedar tree, which as far as she could tell was the oldest around. It towered high above, the trunk nearly five times as wide as the average man. She straightened her collar. Her foot ached slightly as she put weight on it from her luggage landing earlier, but she did her best to ignore it.

“Which one is cedar?” she heard Dean Thomas mutter behind her.

“The one with peeling bark.”

“Right—which one, Seamus?”

“The one everyone is walking towards.”

Hermione led the march over to the tree, and Holly hid her smile as she followed. As they came near, another school bus appeared at the end of the road, pulling to a stop right next to the cedar tree. Holly watched as the doors opened and Draco Malfoy bounded out, his head held high.

He saw her, and his lip curled. “Oh, _here_ she is,” he said striding over to her and inclining his head. “Miss Potter.”

Holly dipped her head automatically. “Mr. Malfoy.”

“Please, my father is Mr. Malfoy. I’m just Malfoy,” he drawled with a careless wave of his hand. Other first-years followed him down, including two large hulking boys who came to stand on either side of Malfoy, doing their best to look intimidating. “Oh, and this is Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe,” he added not even looking at them.

Holly dipped her head again. Crabbe and Goyle stared back until Malfoy hissed something she couldn’t hear.

“Pleasure, Miss Potter,” they grunted in unison, stiffly bowing.

“So is this her?” A girl had stepped down from the bus and she and strode over to Holly. She was pretty and vivacious with a bob of perfect dark hair like molten chocolate. But there was something aggressive about her jaw that reminded Holly of one of Aunt Marge’s bulldogs. “She’s a bit shorter than I imagined.”

Holly had never been fond of people that talked about her as if she couldn’t listen. “You imagined wrong then, Miss—oh, you never did introduce yourself,” and with that Holly turned her attention back to Malfoy, ignoring the way the girl’s mouth dropped. “Have a long bus ride?”

“Quite, over eight hours.” He stretched as he spoke and Holly thought she heard a bone pop.

Holly turned to introduce Hermione to him but saw that she had wandered over to Dean and Seamus on the other side of the tree. But there was someone else marching directly toward her, and judging from the freckled face and bright red hair, it was the younger brother of Fred and George Weasley.

_What was his name, again?_

He stepped directly in front of her, getting into Malfoy’s face. “Hey, you leave her alone, Malfoy,” he said, “She might not know any better, but I do.”

Malfoy began to laugh. Around him, the others who had climbed off the bus joined suit, except for one girl with thick dark hair who glanced at them, rolled her eyes, and walked away. Holly was dearly tempted to follow her but Malfoy’s next words rooted her to the spot. “I think she’s more than capable of speaking for herself, wouldn’t you say Miss Potter?” he asked, sidestepping Weasley so that Holly could see him again.

“Is this going to happen every time I’m seen speaking to you?” Holly asked, intentionally ignoring Weasley, who had spun around to stare at her—she wished he wouldn’t crowd her so much. She could see something that looked suspiciously like a dirt smudge on the bridge of his nose.

“Curse of a name that means _bad faith_, I presume,” Malfoy sighed. He gestured toward the tree and taking the escape for what it was, Holly fell into a slow stroll beside him. She heard Weasley make a blustering noise behind her, and next moment he was in front of them again—forcing them to stop.

“You grew up with muggles,” Weasley hissed at her. “You don’t get it—you’ll thank me later,” and he made as if to grab her arm but Holly who had seen that arm movement too many times in her life was quick to step back and out of his reach. At the same time, in a blur of black, Crabbe and Goyle appeared in front of her and she started.

She didn’t think they could move that fast.

“I’ll have to ask you to _mind your own business_,” Malfoy said through clenched teeth. “She’s not held here against her will.”

“Holly,” Weasley said, now searching for her eyes. “Come on—”

And Holly had enough. “I did not give _you_ permission to call me by my first name,” she interrupted. She took a step forward and Crabbe and Goyle parted around her. She glanced at Malfoy—she understood why he liked having these two around. She looked back at Weasley who gapped at her like a fish. “I don’t even know who _you_ are, as a matter of fact. And so far, you haven’t given me a single reason why I should follow your advice.”

“But—” He swallowed. “I’m Ron—Fred and George’s brother.”

Holly raised her eyebrow. “And that endears you to me because…?” she trailed off. She thought she saw Malfoy turn away to hide his face, his shoulders shaking.

_At least someone thinks I’m funny._

Weasley stared at her. “You sound just like one of them,” he accused in a furious whisper as if he were spitting a curse. Hagrid had said something similar, and this time it burned like ice in her veins.

“Because I don’t go along with what you say?” she asked quietly. “Go on then, give me your best argument.”

“Yeah, Weasley,” Malfoy jeered, turning back around though there was a smirk on his face. “Why should she listen to you?”

Ron Weasley looked from her to Malfoy and back again. “I’m not saying it in front of him,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Fine.” Holly began to walk, away from the cedar tree, where there was nothing but an empty parking lot. She didn’t look to see who had followed her and stopped when she’d gone some twenty feet and turned around. Weasley had followed. He immediately came into her personal space again and it took everything for Holly not to step back.

“Look—” he began, “The Malfoys were supporters of Tom Riddle, you can even look it up. After shit hit the fan, they claimed they had no idea he was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and got off on the charges but my Dad knows it’s only because Lucius Malfoy paid the judge off. If anyone’s got a reason to hurt you for defeating _him_, the Malfoys do. You can’t trust them.”

Holly waited until it was clear that he was finished before she spoke. “You have made three assumptions, Mr. Weasley,” she began. “First and foremost, being that I don’t know their reputation.”

“But then why—”

“Secondly,” she continued over him, “you’ve decided that Malfoy over there is guilty of his father’s alleged crimes before he’s even hit puberty.”

“Alleged?” he repeated angrily. “See that’s what I mean, you don’t even know—”

“If your judicial system is so broken that it acquitted someone who is _obviously_ guilty of their crimes then I’m surprised the Ministry can function at all.” So far she liked this boy less and less. “In any case, I see no reason based on anything you’ve said why I am bared from a polite conversation with a fellow student.”

“He’s a Malfoy!” Weasley exclaimed so loudly that he spooked a bird to take flight behind them.

“That _is_ his name,” Holly replied curtly. She took a step back from him, unable to bear it any longer. “Sounds to me like common prejudice.”

Weasley gave a shrill laugh. “Prejudice? His family are some of the most prejudiced people you’ll ever meet!”

Holly narrowed her eyes. “And yet, you seem determined to hate him based on some family feud that I’m happily not a part of. If that’s it, I’m leaving now.”

She turned to go and felt his arm grab her elbow. She froze, every muscle in her body tensing.

“You can’t trust him,” he said, imploringly. “Just—you can’t.”

Holly dropped her gaze down to his hand on her elbow and stared at it until he released her. At least he had the decency to look awkward. “Your third assumption, Mr. Weasley,” she said making sure to step out of arms reach, “Is thinking that I trust anyone at all.”

He didn’t reply for a moment, searching her face for something. Then, he put his hands up and began to walk backward. “Fine. You’ll see I’m right. Try asking him on his opinion about muggles and muggleborns sometime,” he said. “Just in case you think I’m _making it all up_.” Holly watched him walk off towards Hermione before she returned to the group hovering around Malfoy.

Malfoy began a slow clap as she neared. “I’m impressed, Miss Potter. I expected him to bodily drag you away.”

_So did I for a minute there._

“Oh, he’s convinced you’ll incriminate yourself before the end of the night and prove him right,” Holly said as she came to stand next to him again.

Malfoy chuckled again, unconcerned. Then he paused. “What did he mean, by the way,” he asked, “About you and the muggles?”

Another school bus came up the road, with a fourth bus right behind that one.

Holly had a feeling this conversation had just taken a turn into dangerous territory, if Weasley’s warning was anything to go by. “Well, my parents were _murdered_,” she said. She did her best to sound casual, but she saw the way Crabbe and Goyle stiffened. “I was raised by my only living family, who happen to be muggles.”

The girl from before appeared at Malfoy’s elbow. She cleared her throat. “I apologize for before, I’m Pansy Parkinson.” She paused and then went on in a rush, “I can’t imagine being raised by muggles. What were they like?”

“Uh—” Holly was saved from figuring out what to tell these people about the Dursleys—none of which was positive—by the arrival of a large group of first years.

“Perhaps, another time,” Malfoy said, and from the look she shot her, Holly knew he would hunt her down to find that story. She swallowed, and then they were swept into the group chatting animatedly as they walked up to the tree. Holly took the moment to find Hermione again.

“Oh finally,” Hermione said in a whisper as she came to stand next to her. “Is everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Ron came back ranting about something,” and Hermione nodded her head over to Weasley, who was frowning over at them from the other side of the tree. Holly looked pointedly away.

“He’ll get over it.”

Then, Holly saw familiar beetle-black eyes amid a tangle of hair in the bark of the tree and broke into a grin as Hagrid stepped out of the trunk. Some of the first years screamed in shock when they noticed, while others cheered. Hagrid beamed around at them all, and clapped his hands together, the sound a thunderclap that shook the leaves.

“Welcome!” he boomed. “I’m Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts,” he introduced and he dropped into a bow so low that Holly wondered how he didn’t fall over. “Now, if yer not aware, there’s a bit of a tradition fer first years,” he began. “So if you need to, use the bathroom now cause it’ll be bout an hour before we get up to the castle.”

Holly tried not to grimace. She shifted weight to take the pressure off her ankle. A small handful of students headed off to the Porto Potties. She overheard Parkinson’s dismissive, “I’d rather hold it than use one of_ those_,” and rolled her eyes. Clearly, she’d never been desperate for a bathroom before, no matter what kind.

Hagrid found her face in the crowd and beamed, giving a friendly wave. “All right there, Holly?”

As everyone’s eyes turned to her and the whispers began, Holly wondered how long it would take for her to get used to it. Part of her never wanted to. She couldn’t speak—she just nodded in reply, and Hagrid clapped his hands together again.

“Now, I’m gonna start explaining this, because I’ve always gotta say it twice anyhow. We’re all gonna use this cedar here to get were we need to go.”

Next to her Hermione gave a little giggle of excitement. “I read about this in _The Modern Wizard and Ancient Magick_. It’s called the cellulous transfer process,” she whispered to Holly, “though it’s also known as the _art of the_ _drzewo_ as well as travelling by the woods_._”

“If you’ve never traveled by the woods,” Hagrid went on, “just remember to remain calm and keep walking. If you stop before you’ve gone all the way through, sometimes the splinters will get yah, and there’s more than one story about gettin’ turned into a tree. Just don’t _run_ through it, cause you’ll most likely hurt yourself by tripping over somethin’ on the other side. Just take a deep breath and walk with purpose, aye?”

Hagrid repeated his instructions when the last few stragglers had returned, and after making sure everyone understood, he told everybody to line up in front of him.

“And remember, once you come out on the other side, just step off to the side and wait for the rest of us. If you go off wanderin’ on your own, I wash my hands of ya.”

They shuffled into a line, Holly ending up somewhere in the middle. Behind her, Hermione wondered aloud what it would feel like. A boy somewhere ahead of her could be heard nervously repeating Hagrid’s instructions like a mantra. Holly took a deep breath and remembered the sensation of needles brushing her hair.

“Alright, Holly go on ahead,” Hagrid said when she reached him, and she placed her palm onto the bark. As her palm sunk into the wood, she stepped forward until the world darkened, and she felt stripes of soft wood like fabric against her arms, the heat and honey spice scent of cedar, the branches tickling her head. She came out on the other side and breathed deep, trying to hold onto the smell a moment longer.

Then, she stepped out of the way, and Hermione was there.

“Wow!” Hermione said, finding her. “I could feel—I could smell—that was incredible!” she said, looking back at the tree with wonder in her bright eyes. “I can’t wait until we learn how to do that to any tree! I wonder how you make the connection to another tree to appear on the other side, but then it’s always between the same species of tree and—”

Holly had to grab Hermione’s arm to move her out of the way before a boy crashed into her. She let go immediately. “Sorry,” she said, “Hey, let’s go sit down over here, yeah?” she said, gesturing to a fallen log just off to the side of them.

By the time everyone had gone through the giant cedar tree and Hagrid stepped through the bark, brushing the branches from his head, it was quite dark outside and Holly shivered. She should have brought her coat.

Hagrid peered through the dark and with a snap of his fingers; fireflies illuminated the night around them. Holly could see a trail through the trees now, the fireflies hovering right over the path. Hagrid told them all to keep close and speak up if they started falling behind, and led the way.

After about ten minutes, Holly realized that Hermione kept looking sideways at her. And then to her surprise, Hermione fell back so that they were walking side by side. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“You’re limping.”

_Shit._

Holly gritted her teeth. “I dropped my luggage on my foot at the station. It was fine till I started hiking,” and she gave a self-deprecating laugh. “But I’ll make it,” she assured when she saw Hermione’s brows knit in concern.

However, Holly couldn’t deny that the ache in her foot had worsened since the walk had begun. Hermione watched her a moment longer—and then called over the head of the others, “How long of a walk is it, Hagrid, sir?”

“About ten minutes now,” Hagrid called back. “We’ll start going downhill in a bit here and then you lot should be able to see it.”

“I’ll be fine,” Holly repeated, more confidently this time.

“Okay, just… maybe tell someone when you get to the school. Put some ice on it.”

“Ice?”

“You know, for the swelling.”

Holly didn’t think the Dursleys had ever given her ice after she had hurt herself. She did however love the idea of something nice and cold against her foot, and nodded. They started the downhill part of the journey, and Holly bit down on the side of her cheek as she was forced to put more weight on her foot.

And then through a gap in the trees she saw it, and she gasped.

They had come to the edge of a large lake, high mountains just visible in the navy blue distance. But there on the other shore, rising out of a jagged peak that sunk below the black water was a castle. Windows full of flickering golden light had been carved into the stone and towers masqueraded as the cliff face, visible only at a wayward angle. Holly could just make out a wooden dock jutting forth into the water at the point where the castle ended and the forest began. A stairwell was embedded into the precipice.

She was so engrossed that she didn’t notice the small boats bobbing by the lakeshore until Hagrid said, “Mind yer shoes when gettin’ in, the shore’s a bit muddy.”

The boats set off by themselves as soon as they were seated, three or four in each boat. Hagrid of course had one just to himself and he led the way across the lake, hopping out of his boat first and helping everyone onto the dock. Holly winced as they went up the stone staircase. Her leg had begun to shake, her ankle straining under the prolonged use. She refused to let it show on her face.

They reached the top of the stairs, the ground leveling out to provide a handsome courtyard and what looked like a series of greenhouses just visible through the dark in the distance. There was a glen on the other side of the castle within a natural archway, separating part of the mountain. And encroaching, with trunks larger than Holly had ever seen before, was an old-growth forest that extended far as the eye could see.

She had the distinct feeling that someone or _something_ hovered just out of sight within the trees.

Hagrid led them through the courtyard and to another set of stairs, intricately carved into the mountain walls and extended by what appeared to be chiseled boulders. At the top two enormous stone doors were pushed open. A stream of golden light poured from them, and as Holly followed the rest into the entrance hall, her mouth fell open. The vaulted ceiling opened into a maze of stone staircases, from which bannisters of living wood housed more of those giant golden fireflies in between their leaves.

Waiting for them in the entrance hall, in front of another pair of double doors to the right, was—there was no other word for it— a witch. Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun beneath a pointed green hat. She wore matching long emerald green robes and square spectacles. Holly stared at her with wide eyes as they approached, noting the stern lines about her mouth and the flare of fire in her eyes.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” the witch had rough Scottish accent. “I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, and Head of Gryffindor House.” She paused a moment, regarding them all. Holly wondered where Hagrid had gone—it seemed impossible she wouldn’t have noticed him leaving, and yet a quick look around told her otherwise.

“Now,” Professor McGonagall continued, “As you may have heard, new students are sorted into one of four houses. They are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin, each so named for one of the original founders of Hogwarts. And while you are here, your house will be like your family. You will stay in a dorm together, attend classes together, and sit at the same table at mealtimes. Are there any questions?”

No one spoke. Professor McGonagall nodded and went on, “In addition to this, your actions can earn or lose points for your house. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup.”

_So it’s a competition for most well behaved?_

“The Sorting Hat ceremony will begin in just a moment. I urge you all to reflect on what kind of a person you are, and to have an open mind. I will be right back.”

As soon as the door shut behind her, whispers broke out among the first years.

“I wonder what House I’ll be in.”

“She didn’t really describe the differences between the Houses, did she?”

“You should tell her about your foot.” Holly started at Hermione’s whispered voice in her ear. She turned and stepped back a breath, those big brown eyes too close for comfort.

“After dinner,” Holly said with a shrug. “We’re going to be sitting in a moment, and I’m hungry anyway. It feels much better now,” she added. Though, that was because standing still she could put all her weight on her other foot. Hermione regarded her, skeptical, but she didn’t have a chance to push her on the subject because Professor McGonagall returned. Holly was relieved. She intended to tell no one and let her ankle recover after a good night’s rest.

“We’re ready,” Professor McGonagall announced, and she led them through the large double doors into the Great Hall. Holly caught a glimpse of four long tables, banners of yellow, blue, green, and red hanging from posts in the walls. And above, a the walls gave way into what looked like the open sky, stars shining among a sea of navy blue. And hanging in the air, fluttering and moving in a golden swarm, were more of those giant fireflies.

And there, in front of a high table along the back wall, was a three-legged stool and a frayed hat.


	14. The Sorting Hat Stalls

The funny thing was, the Founders of Hogwarts had always used the Sorting Hat to decide which mentor the students received. Unlike them, the Sorting Hat could be truly impartial. It could not feel. It could not judge. It did not feel pity. It could not tell anyone what it witnessed within the minds of the children who sat atop the stool. It only saw where each student ought to go.

It had been made this way.

Course, if the Sorting Hat could communicate it would have told everyone long ago that there were more than four types of children. Technically, it wasn’t sorting the children at all. It picked the best mentor style, but there you are. So, the Sorting Hat did what it could, and placed the children not necessarily where they wanted to go but where they would flourish. But now and then, a child would make the Sorting Hat pause.

Some had potential of more than one flavor. Most children did. With only four options to choose from, the Sorting Hat had encountered quite a lot of these stalls during its tenure, some longer than others. Many would find a way to succeed regardless of where they went.

And each year, the Sorting Hat saw what each child had been taught to expect. It saw how the reputation of the Hogwarts Houses changed. After a few centuries, what the children believed of the houses did not match the criteria the Sorting Hat used. Luckily, the Founders had suspected something like this might happen.

Although Gryffindor had come up with the idea of using his hat, it had been Slytherin who suggested a failsafe for when they were no longer around to correct it. Ravenclaw had figured out the enchantment to make it work. But it was Hufflepuff who decided it was best done with music, and it was for that reason the Sorting Hat could change its song when it knew something had gone wrong.

And it had been wrong now for _years_.

Eventually, they came to expect a new song every year. Headmasters no longer knew it had once just sung one. By nature, the hat reflected the mind of the person who wore it and could not correct the assumption. It did not have an opinion on _why_ or _how_ or _what_ to do about it. Not that it could ever communicate to another.

If it could though—the Sorting Hat would say it came down to the Hatstalls

When you can choose your flavor, you never need to commit to just one. And sometimes, humans changed their minds. Sometimes they would just decide to do something different for a while. Sometimes life would change them. The Sorting Hat had realized that its own definition of the Hogwarts Houses would need to change if it were to carry on the wishes of the Founders.

For Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had added a failsafe of their own, one that neither would ever admit to. They gave the Sorting Hat dimension. They gave it the ability to reflect and to wonder. They allowed it to choose the happiness and future of the children over the requirements of a list.

The Sorting Hat would call this life. And it _lived_ for a good Hatstall. It had been a long time since the last one, and they were overdue.

“Potter, Holly.”

A new mind entered and the Sorting Hat saw a horse-faced woman with hard dismissive eyes, a chubby blonde boy with a cruel smile, and a large beefy man with a walrus mustache and a voice like a hurricane—their faces encompassed the majority of the young girl’s memories.

The Sorting Hat saw how she turned her teacher’s hair blue after they had mocked her poor marks during class. It watched as a gigantic bulldog nipped at her heels and chased her up a tree where she remained trapped until well past midnight. Aunt Petunia had taught her self-reliance and Uncle Vernon had taught her silence. And though neglected, hunger clawing at her stomach, in clothes several sizes too big, her emerald eyes glittered with a determination to survive no matter what.

_Ah, now that is unexpected._

She had suspected some kind of voice but was still surprised to hear it. Curiosity blossomed in the roots of her mind. She wondered what was unexpected.

_Why you, my dear._

Confusion flashed and the thought transformed into a mosaic of self-reflection as she examined the unexpected within herself. The discovery she had magic, her fame, and the fight between expectation and reality; she agreed—she had not expected any of this to happen. A sea of faces smiled at her, all asking to shake her hand, honored to meet The Girl Who Lived but she didn’t feel like anyone’s hero. She thought her parents had been heroes, maybe. She had heard they had both gone to Gryffindor.

_While I may be deliberating, I know you are not destined for Gryffindor._

At once a swirl of conflict and panic resonated in her thoughts. She felt compelled to defend her connection to her parents—what was she if she wasn’t like them? Shouldn’t she have inherited their traits? She thought of all the times she had refused to let the Dursleys win—

Uncle Vernon knocked her to the floor and she did not make a sound. She stole a slice of bread when Aunt Petunia’s back was turned. She snarled back at Dudley in defiance, earning his wrath so that weaker students were spared. She had been rocked by fear and knew what it was to stand in spite of it—was that not bravery? Did it not take courage to save yourself?

_Oh, you have plenty of courage. _

The image of a lion appeared, pressing, demanding an explanation. Why not Gryffindor?

_You already know the lessons that they would teach there._

“I do?” her voice whispered into the confines of her mind. Her attention darted between memories, looking for lessons she had learned.

_The young Gryffindor is brash, reckless, and the type to shoot first and ask questions never. They must learn the difference between arrogance and bravery, what is cowardice and what is strength. They must learn when to act and when to react. They are driven by their ideals and their values, and they give in to the argument of emotion rather than reason. Gryffindor will teach them to temper these behaviors._

Understanding resonated within her. She had learned to never act without thinking, lest Uncle Vernon punished her. She had learned to carefully consider, work the system, find the loophole, to bide her time and wait for a chance. She knew when it was best to avert her eyes. She knew how to recognize strength from arrogance; knew what real power looked like. She agreed—it pained her, but she agreed.

_What do you need to learn, Holly?_

And oh, how she couldn’t _wait_ to learn. Questions arose in her thoughts, flitting and fading like shooting stars, too quick for the Sorting Hat to see. She wanted to know about the magical world, about the creatures and plants and empires and accomplishments. She had never been allowed to succeed before. Her cousin had threatened her to never surpass him, which left her failing. But here? She was at the bottom of a mountain and she was determined to climb to the top. She imagined a scarf in blue.

_You would not be satisfied there._

The girl beneath the hat sighed. She suspected the Sorting Hat was right about that. She imagined a life of pursing knowledge and found it missing _something_. She had never seen much value in knowing pointless trivia. She wondered what lessons Ravenclaw needed to learn.

_The young Ravenclaw is bright, sharp, and eager to learn, yes, but they must also learn to filter the information they absorb. Not all knowledge is created equal. They must learn how to sort, decide what to keep and what to discard, and they must learn how to improve. All the knowledge in the world is meaningless if it only sits in books. _

“What about Hufflepuff and Slytherin?” the thought rang clear as a bell.

_There are many kinds of Hufflepuff, and they in turn support and teach each other. They must learn to value their contribution as much as they value assistance. They must learn not to get caught in the trap of self-depreciation. Some are shy and must learn to stand their ground, and others are fearful and must learn when to call out for help. They learn to trust one another and to support each other, for together they are strong._

_As for Slytherin, they must learn the difference between tyrant and ruler. They must learn when a goal is no longer worth pursuing or when to change tactics. They must learn to separate the greater good from their selfishness. They must wrestle with the moral quandary, know when to act and when to prevent, and what happens if you overplay your hand. They must learn the consequences should they decide to harm another. _

A shiver bought Goosebumps to the back of her neck. She could never imagine hurting another person.

_Not even your Uncle?_

She didn’t like that question. A hot bubble of justification rose in her thoughts. The Sorting Hat saw the long list of crimes she held against him. She thought he deserved to know what it felt like to be too small and weak to fight back. She deserved the power to protect herself against him. And then she faltered—she couldn’t imagine hurting him, just stopping him from hurting her.

_You refuse to let those stronger than you crush your spirit. You also have a warm kindness in your heart that comes from knowing intimately what it is like to be weak. You are bright and curious, and clever enough to make it happen._

_So where do I put you?_

She considered. A color wheel formed depicting only the hues, red, green, yellow, and blue. She liked both blue and green. The colors clung together and transformed into a lion she had seen at the zoo once. She had thought it was too impressive for such a small concrete enclosure. Her brain summoned forth other memories of her trip. The birds of prey had looked annoyed they could not fly away from all these eyes. She stood in front of a glass panel that separated her from an anaconda and had apologized for her voyeurism when the serpent raised its head and replied. She watched Dudley fall through the glass—

_—Wait!_

The memory skidded to a halt, puzzled.

_You have spoken to a serpent?_

Blank surprise. And then, the image returned. The anaconda had lifted its head so that it was level with her eyes. The Sorting Hat did not see anything curious about the way it peered at the girl, but he felt understanding bloom within her and words of translation drifted down like feathers.

_Oh, I’m used to it by now._

Holly had looked all around her before she looked back at the snake. “You can understand me?” she had whispered in delicious surprise.

Again, the anaconda did not speak any words the Sorting Hat could understand. It observed the way it cocked its head at her words. And yet, she seemed to understand the serpent’s meaning. _The surprise is shared by us both, young human._

The Sorting Hat felt her inquire a question with no words.

_Slytherin is known for its affinity with snakes._

Hesitation. The face of Rubeus Hagrid flickered into focus and his words repeated like a fragmenting sound bite, “There’s not a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin.” It mutated into the face of Draco Malfoy with his sneering features and the hat felt an intense rush of dislike rise within her. This was her introduction to the Hogwarts Houses. The Sorting Hat came to the chilling realization that this might be the most important Hatstall of the century. And at that moment, the Sorting Hat made a decision.

_You of all people should know never to trust a book by its cover._

She was taken aback. She had not yet heard someone speak up in defense of Slytherin.

_Answer me this then: If Slytherin does nothing but create dark wizards why don’t we execute every one sorted on the spot—why wait until they grow up into Dark Lords?_

She recoiled against the idea. That would mean killing children, and yet that hat felt her mulling the question over because it had a point—if they were that evil, _why not kill them_? The thought twisted and churned in her stomach, uncomfortable. She couldn’t justify killing someone over a mere personality test. She knew there were exceptions to every rule. She knew what it was like to be judged as dangerous and avoided. She knew what it was like to be at the center of rumors and lies that painted her worse than she was.

_You are everything Salazar sought for in his pupils, the rough image of himself in his youth. Cautious, perceptive, with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue—ambitious to a fault and willing to play the odds. You have these in spades, my dear._

She hesitated, a rise of fear and panic in her throat. The world did not want a Slytherin hero—they would not be pleased to learn what a wretch the Girl Who Lived was.

_You will do well in Slytherin if you let yourself._

And there it was, the image flickered in and out, debating entry onto the stage before she took a deep breath and there stood a little girl who would never let anyone hurt her ever again. There was a little girl who deserved so much _more._

The brim of the Sorting Hat opened wide. “SLYTHERIN!”


	15. The Headmaster's Request

Albus Dumbledore had told himself there was no reason to suspect dear Holly Potter would end up anywhere except Gryffindor. The girl had been shy, curious, and kind—if somewhat cautious. Still, he had pushed away his concerns, thinking it no great cause for alarm. That was until his Ground’s Keeper had told him how she had emerged with the mark of a Goblin Promise and she persuaded Hagrid to allow the Malfoy’s to join their shopping trip. So when the Sorting Hat finally announced that the Girl Who Lived would wear green and silver—he felt as if he should have seen it coming.

Everyone else was surprised.

Minerva McGonagall stood frozen a moment longer than usual before she removed the Sorting Hat from the girl’s head of messy short dark curls. Fillius Flitwick dropped his drink to the table with a _thunk_. Hagrid audibly gasped, “No,” as whispers filled the Great Hall. And then a shriek of laughter cut the air like a knife and Slytherin sixth year Villanelle Rosier screeched into the quiet, “Would you look at that? We got Potter!”

At her words, the table on the far left exploded into cheers, chanting “Slytherin Potter!” until the girl in question had taken a seat among her fellow snakes.

How had this happened? What had he overlooked? All during the feast, the thoughts chased themselves around in the Headmaster’s mind. Her Aunt and Uncle had not told her anything about the death of her parents. She hadn’t even known about the existence of magick until she got her letter, and she’d reacted to her fame with embarrassment. Everything had been perfect—

“I can’t recall the last time a Potter went to Slytherin,” said Minerva in an undertone, her voice casual, her gaze searching as she glanced at him from behind a glass of pumpkin juice.

“Neither can I.”

“Severus doesn’t look pleased.”

Indeed, the Potion’s Master seldom looked so furious. His sallow skin had taken on the color of curdled milk, loathing etched in every line of his face. But then—neither did Minerva. Her lips were pressed together, and she kept turning her attention to the Slytherin table only to catch herself and forcefully turn away again.

“I’m sure he would rather you had become her head of house, Minerva,” Dumbledore said, his voice soft.

If anything, Minerva’s lips thinned even more. She took another few bites of food, and then said, “The Sorting Hat took its time with this lot, did it not? It’s been at least fifty years since a proper Hatstall.”

Both Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom had taken nearly four minutes before the Sorting Hat announced Gryffindor but—“I suppose I should have expected the Girl Who Lived would be difficult.”

At that, Minerva scoffed. “Children are all difficult, Albus. They’re still finding out who they are.” She hesitated. “I wonder what tipped the balance…I was a Hatstall as well if you recall.”

“Ah, yes, I remember you mentioned to me that the Sorting Hat agonized over whether to place you in Ravenclaw or Gryffindor.” He peered at her through his half-moon spectacles. “So, what tipped the balance in your case?”

“I had no interest in dedicating my life to the pursuit of knowledge for knowledge’s sake.” Her features softened, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I was quite headstrong in my youth. Eventually, I decided I was better suited to Gryffindor and the Sorting Hat was happy to agree.”

“I see,” and Dumbledore returned his gaze to Potter, watching as she attempted to try everything on the table. Not for the first time, he wished he could discuss the matter of sorting with the hat itself. “Might I persuade you to keep an eye on her?” he asked after a few moments.

Minerva raised her eyebrow. “Surely that is now a matter for her Head of House?”

“I worry it will take some, ah, time for Severus to adjust and I do not wish Miss Potter to suffer for it.”

Minerva glanced down the table at Severus and sighed. “Of course I will, but that boy needs to move past petty grudges. Miss Potter is quite _clearly_ not her father’s daughter no matter how she might resemble him.”

“No, she is not,” Dumbledore shaking his head. “No, she is not.”

Minerva did not pursue the topic of the sorting further, and they fell into a discussion of when to schedule the next staff meeting instead. After the end of the feast, after he had sent all of the students off to their respective dormitories—Miss Potter _not_ heading to Gryffindor Tower as he had imagined—he returned to his office, knowing he that had one last discussion tonight.

As he had expected, Severus Snape paced a path of fuming rage in front of his desk, the fluid material of his cloak whipping behind him in a whirlwind of black. And as he entered, the Potion’s Master stopped dead and turned to him in a single violent movement.

“I want her out of Slytherin,” Severus spat. As always, right to the point. But Dumbledore did not reply. He carefully closed the door behind him and strode across the room to his desk. Severus continued as he circled back, dogging the Headmaster’s steps, “The Sorting Hat has made a mistake, can’t you see Headmaster?”

Dumbledore sat down, and Severus returned to his pacing. He placed his hands together and calmly listened as his Head of Slytherin began a tirade of reasons why Potter _couldn’t_ belong in his house. To his surprise, only one of them had to do with her lineage… the rest made terrible sense.

“—And do you know what happens when the wizarding world discovers that their precious Girl Who Lived has been thrown into the snake pit? You won’t be able to control the fallout. Lucius is going to instruct his son to maneuver his way into her good graces. That girl is too naive and arrogant; she won’t even know she’s being manipulated until it’s too late! Your allies will tear you apart for failing to protect our precious hero, and your enemies will turn her against you.” Breathing hard, Severus came to stand before the desk, pressing his palms against the wood and looked straight into those twinkling blue eyes, “Potter _cannot_ be a Slytherin.”

“And yet, that is what the Sorting Hat has decided.” Dumbledore heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair, surveying the Slytherin before him. “Truth be told, I am as surprised as you are. I had every expectation of Miss Potter following in the footsteps of her parents, but it seems neither of us know who she is—” and here he glanced at the Sorting Hat.

It had been returned to his office immediately after the ceremony. Severus turned to glare at the patched cloth, asking it a question they both knew it couldn’t answer. “There must be a way to change it, some ancient custom?” Severus pressed, desperate now.

“Did you know the Sorting Hat is the exact the same age as Hogwarts?”

Severus stared blankly at him.

“In fact, if you were to cast a _tempus _charm they would say they came into existence on the same day, the same hour, and the same second. The individual stones of the castle are much older, thousands even millions of years in the making—and it is easy to tell that the material of the hat was darned several times before it came into its position as the Sorting Hat. And yet, if you inquire of the objects, of Hogwarts as a whole, they declare the same birthdate.”

Severus seemed to deflate, a crease developed in his brow and he snarled, “What’s that supposed to mean?” though he had lost much of his earlier bite.

“The Houses are as ancient and central as Hogwarts itself. It is not a magic that can be overturned, and the Sorting Hat has never changed a student’s House—not once in the school’s history. Several have tried—I recall an old tale about Claudius the Duplicitous who attempted to return to Hogwarts after his twenty-eighth birthday in order to force the Sorting Hat to declare he was no longer a Ravenclaw. The story goes he sat under the Sorting Hat for eight and a half minutes before taking it off his head and shouting, “But I don’t _like_ that answer,” and refused to talk about his Hogwarts House for the rest of his days.”

Severus took a step back from him. The fury that had seized the professor since the sorting ceremony had dissipated, replaced by a foreboding suspicion. “It _has_ to be a mistake.”

“Severus—”

“She cannot be a Slytherin,” he repeated, emphatic, the words cut from his teeth and Dumbledore did not sense the childhood bias coloring his words. He heard a warning instead.

“Why? Why can’t the girl be a Slytherin?” he asked softly.

Severus regarded him with an expression Dumbledore had never seen before. He had seen elements, the lip-curling sneer, the pinched face of distaste, and cold detachment in black eyes. But the crow’s feet and the twitch in the man’s jaw gave Dumbledore the distinct impression that he had missed something dreadfully amusing.

“If it’s not a mistake—if she really is a snake—” Severus seemed to be searching for the right words. “She’ll reject her destiny.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you.” This wasn’t something one could simply _reject_ after all.

Again, that amusement tugged on the corners of Snape’s face. As if he were enjoying a joke at the Headmaster’s expense. “A Slytherin will sense an orchestrated plot to control their life,” he whispered as if he were passing on a secret. “And a Slytherin will have their own agenda—ambition is the drive to create _change_, to achieve something, to attain something, to carve your own mark upon the world in some way.”

Dumbledore felt a knot form in his stomach that he would never admit to.

“She’ll find her own ending if she doesn’t like yours.”

He imagined the possibility of Potter refusing to fight in the coming war and did not like the future he saw. But— “Even Slytherins can put aside their personal feelings for the greater good.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they’ll throw everything away and swap sides if it means saving the life of one _specific_ person.” The deadpanned expression in his eyes left no mystery about whom he was referring. “The greater good is a matter of perspective, Headmaster. Let us hope that her agenda aligns with yours.”

“I need you to guide her.”

Severus turned away, recoiling against the idea. “She’s not_—_

“She is in _your_ house, Severus. You can try to deny it all you like, but the fact of the matter is that she will be staying in the dungeons for the next seven years. I suggest you get to know her a little before you completely alienate her, and I have no desire to see her turn into one of Lucius Malfoy’s puppets.” Grudgingly, Severus looked back at him and Dumbledore went on, “Clearly she is nothing like either of her parents. Do not be so cruel as to blame her for the sins of her father.”

Severus did not reply. His expression had gone unreadable.

“She will need more than just your protection,” Dumbledore pressed. “Whether the hat made a mistake or not she will need to learn how to survive in Slytherin. Promise me, Severus, that you will at least _try_ to put aside your feelings about her, at least to see whether or not this _is_ a mistake?”

“Fine,” Severus growled. “I’ll treat her like any other Slytherin, but I’m in charge of any detentions she receives. As her Head of House, I’m responsible for disciplining her. Not you and certainly not Minerva.”

“Very well, Severus,” Dumbledore said with a touch of impatience. “Short of expelling her, you are free to raise your new Slytherin as you wish.”

And as Severus Snape departed the office, Dumbledore had a moment of misgiving. But—he had thought he would be teaching a Gryffindor. He knew little about how to rear a Slytherin.


	16. Through the Eyes of Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: References to eating disorders, nausea, and depctions of anxiety.

Severus Snape had three rules for his Slytherins. One, all matters regarding each other were to stay in house. It did not matter if you despised each other or made a scene in the common room, you would show a united front before the rest of the school. Two, never act unless you were prepared to face the consequences. And three, never forget what you hope to accomplish.

He didn’t tell them these rules, of course. Finding out what they were was half the fun.

When he had returned to his office, his Prefects were waiting for him. They informed him the new students had been properly shown to their dormitories, and except some excited chatter in which everyone tried to meet the Girl Who Lived, not much else happened. They bade him goodnight and Severus Snape grudgingly consoled himself with the fact that at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the girl until Friday during Potions.

Unless Pansy Parkinson showed up at his office just before breakfast to tell him with poorly concealed glee that Miss Potter had kept her up half the night retching in the lavatory. “How am I supposed to get a good night sleep if Potter’s a bulimic?” she said, folding her arms.

“Yes, I see you are _very_ concerned about her wellbeing to come to me first thing in the morning,” he said as his lip curled, and the smugness Parkinson failed to mask turned into panic. He dropped his pleasant manner and snarled, “You seem to be under the delusion that you can use me in your petty first year squabbles.”

“I—” Parkinson took a fast step back from him, wringing her hands. “I—but she—she really was in the bathroom, sir—” she trailed off as he stared back at her, silent and indifferent. “I’m sorry to have bothered you sir,” she finished in a mumble and vacated his office at once.

At breakfast, Snape caught himself watching Potter closely. She nibbled on a piece of bacon. Two pieces. Three. She grabbed a breakfast sausage and savored every bite. She went to grab another and froze, her hand outstretched. Instead she took a deep breath and made to grab her water goblet instead.

For the remainder of the meal, Holly Potter ate nothing else.

He taught his seventh year NEWT students in the morning. He told himself Potter was not in an upstairs washroom, bent over a porcelain bowl.

At lunch, he tried not to pay attention to the way Parkinson hovered at Potter’s side while the girl mechanically ate a Shepherds Pie, each spoonful cautious. She left her plate unfinished.

He did not end his sixth year class early so that he could run into the first year students headed into dinner. He did not run up the stairs to beat them there. They were coming from the fourth corridor and that meant he arrived from the mouth of the dungeon just as the fastest of them would reach the entry hall. They were not walking fast. Parkinson had drawn a group around her, each step distracted, halting, conversing quietly among themselves.

It took one look for Snape to know that Potter was not there. Malfoy saw him and opened his mouth, only for Parkinson to grab his elbow and shake her head. Severus met her eyes and understood. _Damn that girl. _They fell silent as he strode over to them, moving automatically out of his way.

“Which one?” he asked Parkinson, his lips barely moving.

“The second floor, sir.”

He swept past them, each step quick and purposeful. He reached the bathroom just ahead of a group of Ravenclaw girls and pulled out his wand. “This restroom is temporarily out of order,” he spat at them as he pointed his wand at the door. An _Out of Order_ sign appeared. They skidded to a halt, backtracked, and ran from him. As soon as they had rounded the corner, Severus cast a silencing spell and stepped inside.

Unaware that someone else had entered, Holly Potter dry-heaved in the bathroom stall at the end. He heard a gulp, followed by a small voice cracked from use, “What is _wrong_ with me?” and a confused desperation that told him exactly what he needed to know.

Snape opened and closed the door with a snap. All sound died in the end stall. If he did not know otherwise, he would not have realized she was there—he walked until he stood in front of the stall door and saw the tail end of her book bag peaking out from under the door. He lifted his hand to open the door—

_Girl._

He took a long slow breath. He knocked.

“Taken.”

“Open the door, Miss Potter.” He expected her to deny him. She remained silent. He raised his hand to pound on the door again—_open this door now or—_

The latch shifted and the door swung open. Holly Potter sat on the floor, her back against the side wall, left arm propped on the toilet bowl. She shivered as she looked up at him; dark curls of short black hair stuck in the line of sweat around her face. Not shivering—her hand shook as she wiped her lips on her sleeve.

He watched as she desperately tried to hide it all from him.

His lip twitched. “I hear you have a problem with the food?” he asked, quirking his eyebrow.

She swallowed, and he watched as she sunk back further against the toilet bowl. Her gaze was unsteady and she glanced once as if she could see through solid wood to the exit.

“No one will interrupt us.” The words had left his mouth before he could stop himself, impatient. It was only as she snapped her green eyes back on him, one less anxiety on her face than before, that he realized how Slytherin it was of her to care.

“I—” Her voice cracked and he watched as she closed her eyes and tried again. “I think I have the stomach flu or—” she shook her head and looked back up at him. “Or I ate a bad sausage or something.”

Snape clicked his teeth. “And is there a particular reason why you haven’t gone to the Infirmary?”

The girl stared at his shoes. “I thought I would get better,” she mumbled.

“Wanted to wait until they had to lift your unconscious body to the Hospital Wing?” he snarled. “How very _brave_ of you—” He trailed off. Potter had given a derisive snort at his words, and those bottle-green eyes held an expression he had never once seen in Lily’s. “Is something amusing to you, Potter?”

She gave a shrug. “Oh, I think the Sorting Hat would disagree with you there.”

He had never heard such—_you insolent little— _Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face because a look of dawning horror filled her eyes. “I’m sorry, ah Professor, sir—” she added, flattening herself against the wall.

Perhaps Minerva had a point when she said he needed to dial it back with the first years. But— “Explain,” he hissed through his teeth.

Potter chewed her cheek before answering. “Is it brave to avoid admitting weakness?” she finally asked. “I think someone brave wouldn’t care what everyone else thought.”

His lip curled. “Oh yes, what else should I expect from our newest _celebrity_?” And before he knew it, he was shouting. “Foolish girl! Suffering in silence isn’t noble it’s stubborn vanity! And I hate to break it to you Potter, but stealing away to vomit after every meal isn’t subtle. Do you think I’m the only one who knows? Your pride isn’t worth the meals you’ve tossed. Your father was arrogant too—”

“NO!” She shouted over him, and she spoke her next words with her face buried behind her hands, “I just don’t want everyone to know!”

Fuming, his rage not yet spent, he glared at her until she dropped her hands and cautiously looked up at him. “Don’t you ever interrupt me again, Potter,” he said in a voice of deadly calm.

She shivered. “Yes, sir.”

“What don’t you want everyone to know?”

At that, she turned and spit into the toilet bowl. She spoke without looking at him. “I’ve never had food like this before.”

It was not the admission he had been expecting and he didn’t understand. He remained silent and she continued after a long shuddering breath.

“I—the Dursleys, well, I’ve never seen so much…rich food before.” She shifted, uncomfortable. He could tell something else was on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it down. “But I can’t—I’m not—”

“Spit it out, girl,” he snapped.

“I’m not what everyone wants me to be!” she shot back. He could hear her raw throat in her cracked words. “I’m not arrogant or proud or _brave_,” she continued, scoffing at the thought. “I’m supposed to be this—this _thing_ and if I’m not—” she ran her fingers over her face, wiping her nose on her sleeve, “What am I? I can’t even _eat _like I’m supposed—” she cut off, her face paled. She turned to the toilet; a shudder cascading down her shoulders and heaved.

Severus Snape wished he had thought to send for Minerva instead. He had been prepared to discipline the girl, not provide emotional support.

Potter groaned and leaned back against the wall, spittle hanging from her lips. “Forget it,” she said, shaking her head. She closed her eyes. “I just ate terrible food with the muggles and got overexcited at the feast. I—I don’t know why I’m still—”

“Are you telling me you are ill because you never learned to eat properly?” She heard the incredulity in his voice, he saw the way she flinched—but she didn’t deny it. She chewed on her cheek again, refusing to meet his eyes. “You will look at me when I am speaking to you, Potter.”

Her eyes flickered over to his face. He couldn’t explain the sinking feeling in his gut that there was more to this that she refused to say but her expression remained closed to him. He might have thought it stoicism were it not for how exhausted she looked. He would not get any more information out of her today. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a vial he had stashed there the moment Parkinson had left his office.

“This will settle your stomach,” he informed her.

She took the potion from him with trembling fingers and drank it without argument. Some of the tension left her shoulders.

“In the future I expect you to report to the infirmary the second you feel poorly. I do not have time to chase self-sacrificing imbeciles around the castle, and such despicable behavior is a disgrace no Slytherin would ever allow. Have made myself clear?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.” She hesitated, then— “Do I have to go to the infirmary now, sir?” He saw from her expression that was the _last _thing she wanted to do. He had half a mind to drag her there himself that instant but—he reminded himself forcefully—he wouldn’t do such a thing to Parkinson. Instead, he regarded her disheveled appearance with scorn.

“You would rather go to the Great Hall in your state?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, considered and then deflated. “I would rather go to bed, sir,” she grumbled.

“You _will_ eat something tonight,” Snape glowered at her. “You are dangerously dehydrated and have ruined whatever health you might have arrived with. If you will not go to the infirmary, you will clean yourself up and have a bowl of bone broth. Those are your options.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay.” He stepped back as she got to her feet, using the toilet for support. She cautiously let go and tested her balance. Snape tried not to notice how she was quite small and skinny for her age. But, though her knees quivered, she remained upright. She picked up her book bag. “I’ll clean up and go to dinner, sir.”

She followed him out of the bathroom and Snape removed the _Out of Order_ sign from the door. He expected her to slip, to fall, to lose her energy and force him to carry the insolent child to the infirmary himself but she remained a silent companion. At the bottom of the stairs, she deviated to the dungeons and Snape watched her go—promising retribution if she missed dinner.

Snape didn’t touch his plate of food until he saw her slip inside the Great Hall, hair damp from the shower. Without a word to anyone, she sat down and searched the table for the broth. She started when a bowl appeared on her plate and she cast a glance up at the High Table where she met his eyes. Something set in her jaw; her head lifted, and as she began to eat Snape was forced to admit it.

Potter was a Slytherin.

He rejected the thought several times over the course of the week. He looked for reasons why it couldn’t possibly be true. He glared at her from behind his morning glass of pumpkin juice and remembered the look in those green eyes as she gazed up at him from the bathroom floor.

_Oh, I think the Sorting Hat would disagree with you there._

Severus found himself in the staff lounge, eavesdropping on the other professor’s as they discussed the newest batch of students. They disregarded her absent first day as post sorting jitters—

“I imagine it came as a shock to her too,” Professor Flitwick said to Professor Sprout. “She no doubt argued the matter with the Sorting Hat and lost. Poor dear…”

Severus wondered whether that was really true. He would _not_ look for an excuse to ask her.

And then, they only spoke of her in hushed surprise. She took careful notes in class and did not care to volunteer information. They called her quiet, reserved, sharp and direct. They called her shy. They did not know what she was doing in Slytherin. Minerva described how she ignored the whispers like knives in her back, how she struggled to engage with her classmates. They feared the other Slytherins gave her a hard time.

But Parkinson did not invade his office to tell him what Potter was up to. He did not hear from his Prefects that the first years fought amongst themselves. She did not _look_ ostracized as they conversed during mealtimes.

He would find out for sure during Potions Class. Forcing her to interact with the Gryffindors had been his idea. He called it morbid curiosity.

He sat behind his desk as they entered the dungeon, red and green staking out groups on opposite sides of the room. Potter entered a few steps behind Parkinson and Malfoy, and her gaze swept systematically over the space, pausing to take it all in. Her eyes lingered on the wall of jars containing preserved animal parts in green fluid. She took an empty spot near the middle, though still on the Slytherin side of the imaginary line.

Chairs skidded and screeched over the stone as Malfoy and Weasley stole the spots on either side of her, shooting dirty looks over the top of her head. Potter gritted her teeth, whispering something that Snape could not hear. She turned to look behind her as if searching for a new chair only to find they had all been taken. She took a deep breath and refused to look at either of them.

_Interesting._

Severus called the class to order and silence fell immediately. He gave his practiced speech, the one he reserved just for imbecilic first years, and her green eyes never wavered once from his face. He stood and instructions appeared on the board for a simple boil cure.

“You will partner with someone next to you and produce a salve for boils by the end of the class.”

As he had expected, instantly both Malfoy and Weasley began to argue. He strode between the desks, an ear angled toward the conversation.

Weasley tried first. “Be my partner, won’t you Holly?”

“Don’t be stupid, she’s going to be my partner,” Malfoy shot back at him. “As if a Slytherin would pair with a Gryffindor.”

“Piss off Malfoy, she can make her own decisions.”

“I hate to break it to you but she can’t _decide_ to be Gryffindor.”

“Holly, you can’t seriously tell me you want to be this guy’s partner.”

Considering Potter had yet to say a single word, Severus glanced over at them. She had slumped in her chair, staring at a smudge on the desk. She began to rub her temples, as if fighting off a growing headache. And then, as Malfoy retorted scathingly that it didn’t matter what Weasley _believed_ about Potter, her hand shot into the air, surprising them both.

Severus was in front of them in seconds. “What is it, Miss Potter?”

“Are partners required for this assignment, sir?” From the look in her eyes, she was perfectly aware that he had overheard their conversation.

His lip curled. “Are you having difficulty finding a partner?”

“I’m her partner, Professor Snape,” Malfoy said at once, shooting a smug look over at Weasley.

“No he’s not—” Weasley began, his voice rising.

“Silence!” The entire classroom went quiet. “Miss Potter?” he prompted.

“I would prefer to work alone, sir.” She paused and then went on, with soft glance in the direction of the boys on either side of her. “I am concerned I will be distracted.”

The worst part was that Severus did not disagree. But if he allowed her to work alone, there would be an uneven number of students—on the other hand, she presented an opportunity.

He inclined his head to the small table right in front of his desk. He reserved it for particularly troublesome students who required direct supervision. No one had yet chosen to sit there of their own accord, and not just because it put the student in a spotlight before the rest of the class.

“If you are so averse to working with someone else,” he said delicately, and he enjoyed the way his words ruffled Malfoy’s feathers, “You may work on your potion there.”

He expected her to decline. He saw the way her eyebrow raised as she inspected the spot, a flush rising in her cheeks. She did not appreciate being the center of attention, and yet a line set in her jaw. She got to her feet.

“I suppose that leaves the two of you to work together,” she threw over her shoulder at the boys, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Really, Holly?” Weasley hissed at her. She ignored him and grabbed her things and set up her cauldron on the table in front of Snape’s desk.

Alas, Severus would never force Malfoy to work with a Gryffindor and easily granted his request to work in a group of three. The Weasley boy had been oblivious of the fact that the person on his other side had needed a partner. Once he had inspected that everyone had set up their cauldrons correctly, he returned to his desk.

Potter had a piece of parchment out and was copying down the instructions from the board. At the sound of his chair sliding against the stone, her gaze flickered up to him before returning to her notes.

“You are falling behind. You should already have your cauldron going on the fire,” Severus said in an undertone, so that their conversation did not reach the others. He couldn’t very well ruin the impression that he favored his Slytherins, after all.

Potter did not look up from her parchment. “I will remember the instructions better this way, sir. It will save time during the process if I don’t have to second-guess myself. I do it with new recipes back h—with the muggles.” A smudge of ink provided evidence of her slip. She finished the list and put her quill and inkbottle away before finally setting up her cauldron.

Severus had intended to ignore her. He had intended to circle the class periodically during the lesson. But his intentions vanished the moment he watched her drop all six-snake fangs into her mortar with the intent of smashing them all together at once.

“How do you expect to get a fine powder like that?” he snapped before she could crush down. It was as if his words were a freezing charm, bringing the girl to an abrupt standstill. “If the powder isn’t uniform, it won’t dissolve at the same rate and render the entire concoction worthless. Nearly all mistakes can be traced back to initial carelessness. One at a time.”

A faint flush crept into her face and she avoided his eyes. He watched as she removed all but one of the snake fangs and carefully crushed each into fine powder before adding the next one.

But once he’d started correcting her potion, he couldn’t stop. “You need to clean the intestinal tracts of your horned slugs _before_ you even think of using them as ingredients,” he said as she appraised one of the creatures. He looked at the color of her potion and hissed, “You need to add another measure of the powdered snake fangs.” And before she even had a chance to do it wrong he snapped, “Take your cauldron off the fire now and wait until the steam has dissipated before adding the porcupine quills.”

And every time, she remained silent except for the occasional, “Yes, sir.”

It distracted Severus so much that by the time Neville Longbottom forgot to take _his_ potion off the heat it had already melted through the pewter bottom and begun to spread across the floor. In the chaos that followed Severus berated himself—he should have _known_ this would happen. First years hadn’t yet learned the importance of following instructions to the letter. By the time he had cleaned up Longbottom’s mess and sent the boy up to the hospital wing, Potter had already cleaned up her workstation and had out her piece of parchment with the copied recipe. A bottled sample of her potion sat on his desk.

“Put your things away,” he snarled at her, standing beside his chair. “Class is dismissed.”

“I’m adding notes to my Boil Salve instructions and this is the last class of the day, is it not, sir?”

The comment knocked Severus off balance. He stared at the top of her head and then down to the parchment she scribbled on and saw that in between the numbered margins of his earlier instructions, she added the tips and corrections he had badgered her with. He couldn’t think of a time he had seen a first year student do something like that. Not even some of his N.E.W.T. students could be bothered sometimes.

Potter wrote slowly, legibly, a struggling hand making sense of a quill and unhurried. Severus saw Malfoy hesitate by the door, glancing over at Potter and then up to him and decide better of it. Weasley had already gone. After the last student left, Holly put down her quill and looked up.

It was now or never.

Severus gritted his teeth. “Miss Potter.” She blinked up at him, expectant. He narrowed his eyes. “Do not assume I will _play along_ the next time you wish to use me to shield you from Mr. Malfoy or Mr. Weasley. Or are you that determined to disregard the house the Sorting Hat has placed you in?”

“I—” Potter dropped her gaze to her desk, hiding behind her fringe of haphazard black curls. She took a deep breath and forced herself to look at him. “They just want me around like I’m a piece of jewelry. Neither of them cares at all about how I feel about it.”

Severus sat down across from her. “Explain.”

Potter chewed her cheek for ten seconds before she replied. “Ron Weasley seems to be under the delusion that I was wrongly sorted into Slytherin and is convinced he can, I don’t know, _persuade_ me to agree with him. He looks for any excuse to talk to me and show me what Gryffindor is _all about_ and no matter what I tell him I can’t change his mind.”

“And what have you already told him?”

“I agree with the Sorting Hat!” She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Why doesn’t anyone else? All of you—” she shook her head and then hid her face behind her hands. “All of you are so concerned about where I was sorted. Professor Flitwick actually _consoled _me, as if I-I’d lost a fight I didn’t know I was even in. Even you—” and she glared up at him. “Especially you, Professor Snape.”

This conversation was not going where Severus had expected or wanted.

“How dare you speak to me like that,” Severus snarled and he watched her flinch at his words. Her eyes returned to her desk. The movement struck a memory he didn’t want to consider now. And yet, Potter tensed; _expectant, _and he pulled back the furious tirade about to leave his lips.

“Detention, Miss Potter.”

Her head jerked and she stared at him, startled. Then, she frowned. “Am I wrong, _sir_?”

Severus didn’t think he had ever heard anything so insolent from a student before. “Silence! Do you think yourself above the rules? You will not talk back to me! You might be a Slytherin, but I will not tolerate such impudent behavior, do you understand me, Miss Potter?” He roared, finding himself on his feet.

This time she did not turn away from him though he saw a tremor shake her limbs at his furious tone. It was only then that Severus realized she was just as upset by this conversation as he was.

“Am I, sir? Am I your Slytherin? Are you really going to tell me that you didn’t call me _brave_ the very first time we met as if I were some kind of stain on your shoe? Even the first night—” A shimmer appeared in her eyes and as her next words shook. “You hated me before I walked into the Great Hall. I saw it in your eyes. Everyone in this world seems to think they know who I am. So who am I, sir? _Who_ _am I?_” She swallowed and then furiously wiped her eyes. “Why can’t I just be _me?”_

“Because you are The Girl Who Lived!” Severus hissed back.

“Well, I didn’t want to be!” Potter shrieked back, slamming her hands on the desk. She froze and stared at her own hands and then up to him. “I did ask, you know,” she whispered. “I asked it for Gryffindor and it told me I already knew the lessons Gryffindor would teach. And then—the _snake_—and I didn’t _disagree_ with it and chose—”

“Snake?” Severus repeated, a sinking feeling in his chest.

Potter hesitated. Then, “I spoke to a snake at the zoo once and it… um… talked back.”

This was worse than Severus had expected. He kept his expression impassive as he figured out what to do with this information. He was acutely aware of how Potter was analyzing how he took this confession, and it surprised him to realize it now _mattered_.

“Have you told anyone else this?” he asked, easing himself back into his chair.

“No, sir.”

“While it is true that Parseltongue is a magic Salazar Slytherin himself possessed and is directly associated with our mascot, I would refrain from spreading this knowledge unless you wish to be treated as one of his descendants. I would remind you of course that Tom Riddle was the last in recent memory to make such an claim.”

“I know.” She swallowed. “I’m only telling you.”

_Fuck. No._

“I do not want your secrets,” Severus spat. “Is this how you prove that you belong in Slytherin? Foolish naivety. What makes you think I will keep this to myself?”

She shrugged. “You kept the last one and…” she hesitated. “You wanted to know. You started this conversation, Professor.”

“You gave me an opening.”

“You _are_ my Head of House.” There was a touch of anxiety in her expression now. “If _you_ don’t think I’m Slytherin then—”

Severus closed his eyes. His options were A) Tell her she should have been sorted into Gryffindor, insist against the Sorting Hat and encourage her to argue her case to the Headmaster which would end just as it did for him and leave her to fend off the serpents alone or B) Just tell her.

“The reason I have assigned you detention is because you presume to _guilt trip_ me while simultaneously seeking my assistance. You assumed what I thought based on, what? A single conversation one week ago? Clumsy. And,” he paused and reopened his eyes to find her gazing at him. “No Gryffindor would ever pull such a move.”

She continued to stare at him. And then suspicion darkened her features and she began to put away her things, each movement stilted. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, not looking at him. “I won’t take any more of your time,” she said as she got to her feet.

“Miss Potter.” He waited until she looked at him. “Suspecting the worst will only torment your thoughts. Leave no conversation with regret.”

Potter hesitated only to find the right words. “Do you only think I’m a Slytherin because of the snake…thing, sir?”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. “No.” When he had agreed to guide the girl in the Headmaster’s office he didn’t think that she would find him first. He hadn’t been ready. Every time he said her name he felt it grate against his teeth. His still licked bitter wounds. What did the Headmaster say?

Something about putting aside personal differences for the greater good.

“I accepted that you were a Slytherin when you returned to the Great Hall for dinner.” Potter nodded, relieved and Severus continued, “You will find that people are better moved by action than words. So, when they refuse to hear you, show them.”

“Okay, I’ll—I’ll try that, sir.”

“And you will serve your detention with me tomorrow after lunch. Is that understood?” At Potter’s nod, he dismissed her. She left without a backwards glance, and as the door shut behind her Severus took the potion bottle Potter had left on his desk and uncorked it.

It was perfect.

_Damn her._


	17. How To Be A Snake

Holly Potter knew from the moment the Sorting Hat declared her Slytherin, everything would change. But she didn’t realize just how much until Ron Weasley demanded an explanation, until she saw the way those in red and gold chased her with their eyes as if she were a prize they had failed to win.

_I have no answers for you._

And then there were the other houses that regarded her with a certain degree of caution, as one might a stray dog or a politician. But to Holly, it felt like a line had been drawn in the sand and she had fallen on the wrong side—she recognized the signs all too clearly. It had happened before after Dudley had told their class to, “stay away from that psycho.”

Her absentee first day had done something to mitigate that, however, and Holly found herself shunted into a box of aggrieved smiles and pity filled eyes. _Sorry you ended up in Slytherin._ The words grated against her skin, carving a rejection that echoed in her ears. Halfway through the week, she discovered she would rather they scream and holler at her than skirt around her in the corridors as if they were scared she might turn and bite—

She left Professor Snape’s classroom and came to a stop in the hallway, frowning down at her shoes.

Out of everyone she had met so far in the Wizarding World, no one had deigned to give her even a fragment of the honesty she had just experienced. She might have thought the Head of Slytherin house lacked subtlety if she had not recognized the power display. He had made a point to treat her no more special than anyone else—in fact, he had decided to hold her to an even higher standard, demanding something new. And Holly found herself eager to attend detention.

She had realized she barely knew how to interact with other children her age. All she had to go off of was Dudley and the faces of the nervous children who had avoided her. Now it was different. Some sought her out but it was as if they were merely visitors peering into the window, checking to see who was at home. Others stared at her like their favorite television program. And then there were the folks like Malfoy and Weasley who had already decided everything she represented and could convince her what she needed to do with her life.

As if she couldn’t decide for herself.

Holly headed to lunch, blocking out the crowd as she walked into the Great Hall. She picked an empty spot amongst the chattering fourth years because she knew by now they were far too interested in who was dating who to care about some kid-celebrity.

Even from here she could see that Parkinson had not saved her a space with the group. She had tried to talk to Greengrass, even Bulstrode, but none of the girls had dared to risk the wrath of Parkinson and Holly could recognize a queen. What she didn’t understand was _why_ _her_.

Parkinson reminded Holly of Dudley, if Dudley had been smart and also a girl. She was pretty and vivacious, her words quick and temper vicious. She somehow inspired a large group to follow in her footsteps, was the one to propose ideas, and the one to spit venom. She decided who got to join and who walked away with bruises or more simply, blocked from their society.

And Holly could tell she was a social pariah. No one in Slytherin ever told her to leave them alone, or even made a single disparaging comment in her presence, and yet Holly could hear the whispers the second her back was turned like many rattling rattlesnake tails in her ears.

_Other._

It rattled her. Never before had she encountered distant politeness pointed like a weapon. And for the first time, she had been hoping to make some friends. Holly had over a hundred eyes watching her every move and not a single person who seemed interested in getting to know her as a friend. Weasley wanted to save her and Malfoy wanted to be her Victorian dandy and Parkinson seemed to be waiting for something.

_But waiting for what? _

The only other person Holly really knew was Hagrid, and with a decision crystalizing behind her eyes, she finished her lunch and—seeing that the man in question was not seated at the High Table—took her leave into the Hogwarts grounds.

They had all been warned about venturing too far alone, of course. They were in the middle of the Cascades, a range of some seven hundred miles with snow-capped peaks and sleeping volcanoes. Sudden drops, treacherous terrain, and carnivorous animals—and who knows, maybe even Sasquatch.

Hagrid lived in a small cottage on the edge of the encroaching Forbidden Forest, and Holly found it with little difficulty. She reached his wooden door and hesitated a moment. What if he turned her away now that she was a Slytherin? She took a deep breath and knocked. She heard several deep booming barks and Hagrid opened the door, one hand around the collar of an enormous black bloodhound.

“Holly? Back, Fang! Back!” Hagrid tugged the dog back. “Ah, come on in, I just put the kettle on.”

Within seconds, Holly realized Hagrid was not, in fact, okay and instead wracked with nervous anxiety. More than once, his gaze fixed on the green and silver of her tie and she watched discomfort color his face as she caught him looking. In shaky silence, he poured her a giant mug of piping hot tea and offered her a stone-hard treacle tart. Holly held the mug in her hands, inhaling the steam rising in from the steeping tea, and counted to ten. Then she clenched her jaw.

“Why does Slytherin exist if everyone’s so scared of it?”

Hagrid choked, his fist slamming a cough from his chest and he avoided her eyes. “They’re not scared—”

“Bullshit.”

“Holly! You—you can’t use words like that!” Hagrid spluttered, throwing a glance toward the windows as if he half expected the Headmaster to catch them in the act.

“Why, you gonna dock points?” she retorted with the barest trace of sarcasm. She had seen how the professors dangled the house points like carrots and decided that she didn’t care. Points? You won what, a golden trophy? Not even for yourself, a trophy for your entire house. All it proved was how much the professors liked or didn’t like you. And Holly had seen enough to realize that all the Heads of House were biased_._

Hagrid frowned at her. “That’s no way to be talkin’ now,” he said, more gruffly. “I know this week can’t have been easy fer yah, but you can’t sink to their level.”

Holly narrowed her eyes. “And who would _they_ be, exactly?” she asked quietly.

“Now that’s not fair,” Hagrid began, wincing and avoiding her eyes. It infuriated her.

“No, what’s not fair is everyone treating me like I’m a ticking time bomb,” she snarled. In the ringing silence that followed her outburst, Fang gave a whimpering whine and Holly started. She hadn’t meant to shout. This wasn’t how she wanted to have this conversation. She hadn’t meant to cause that wary expression in Hagrid’s black eyes as if he needed to stay on his guard.

_There’s not a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin._

“Merlin was a Slytherin,” she said suddenly. “The Prefects, they tell you that first night. He got an honorary sorting when he agreed to come to teach enchantments, and helped create the curriculum we still use for Charms class. And then he went on to create the foundations for modern wizarding society, an ambitious feat applauded by Salazar Slytherin himself. And yet everyone who looks at me sees a shadow attached to my soul. Slytherins aren’t evil, are they?”

“Of course not! Professor Snape was in Slytherin and the Headmaster trusts him more than anyone else I know.”

At that, Holly raised her eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“That’s between them, ain’t it?” Hagrid said with a shrug. “Anyway, what matters is that not all Slytherin’s go bad, it’s just that, well, You-Know-Who is still fresh in everyone’s minds. I heard you’ve been sitting next to a certain red-haired boy a lot,” and Hagrid gave a little wink, “I knew you wouldn’t let yer house stop you. The rest of them will come round soon enough.”

Holly stared at him. She thought of correcting him, of telling him how Weasley didn’t understand her at all, how none of them did, before deciding against it. Unlike Professor Snape, Hagrid seemed to have placed her on a pedestal and he refused to elaborate on why, other than to parrot the Headmaster, but between Hagrid’s hero worship and Malfoy’s blatant propaganda, she had no idea what to think.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Holly finished her tea and left, the conversation stilted and awkward just like when her Aunt Petunia made small talk with the new neighbors who’d moved into number seven and then ranted to Uncle Vernon when they had left about how the neighborhood was going to hell.

Which told Holly two things:

  1. Slytherin didn’t trust her because they weren’t sure she belonged.
  2. Everyone else didn’t trust her because she belonged in Slytherin.

_Caught between a rock and a hard place._

“Miss Potter?”

Holly stumbled to a stop and looked around. Her aimless wandering had brought her passing the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom with a vague plan of spending the rest of her Friday hiding from _everyone _at the back of the library until dinner and knocking out her homework for the week. But there, head poking out of his classroom door, was Professor Quirrell.

She recognized his face from among a tangle of limbs in the Leaky Cauldron, finger pressed against his lips. But Professor Quirrell hadn’t made much of an impression during her first Defense Against the Dark Arts class. He had spent the majority of the period discussing the definition and nature of what one would consider the _Dark Arts_, which boiled down to magic targeted to harm the mental or physical wellbeing of another for selfish and cruel purposes. He had then given them the rest of the class period to write down what they considered the Dark Arts to be and pose possible defenses. Or, as Professor Quirrell had explained:

“Defense is only useful when you understand what you are defending against. I want to know what first comes to mind. I won’t be grading you on quality, but your honesty.”

He had collected their parchment at the end of the period, and Holly had been forced to leave her sentence hanging. What had he meant when he had looked at her, that day in the pub?

“Professor?” Holly replied, turning back toward him.

He pushed open the door to his classroom. “Do you have a moment? I wanted to discuss your response.”

_Is that all?_

“Uh, okay.”

He led her among the desks and up the stairs to his office. Overladen bookshelves covered the walls, assorted papers spilling out from in between leather-bound volumes. The bottom shelf had small chests engraved with interconnecting swirls in a language Holly didn’t recognize. A tall floor-length mirror occupied the back left corner, though Holly couldn’t catch her reflection from this angle. His desk was neat, and she recognized the stack of parchment there as their class responses. Professor Quirrell swept around to sit at his desk and summoned a steaming teapot with a wave of his wand.

“Tea?” he inquired.

“I—I just had some, with Hagrid.” Already she felt jittery. The Dursleys had never bothered to give her much of it.

“Oh? Well, I have a lovely white peach tea if you change your mind.” She watched as he poured himself a cup and a fragrant floral scent drifted from across the desk.

“White peach?” Holly repeated. She’d never had that kind before. “Um, well, okay then.”

Supplied with her own mug, Holly ran her thumb absently over the rim, her gaze drawn to the stack of papers. Professor Quirrell took another sip from his teacup—a solid navy blue one—and cleared his throat.

“Now, I noticed you didn’t quite get enough time to finish your thought,” and Professor Quirrell pulled out the parchment Holly recognized as her own. “So, let’s discuss.” And he looked back up at her, a curious intensity in his light blue eyes. “Miss Potter, what do you think of the Dark Arts?”

Holly took a drink of her tea before she answered, buying time for her thoughts to form. She thought of the explanation he gave in class and found it wanting. “Well,” she forced herself to meet his gaze. The open curiosity in his expression encouraged her. “If the Dark Arts are just spells intended to harm someone else, what about using normal spells in a way that could hurt others?”

“Could you give me an example?”

“Like, levitating a rock or even a knife above someone’s head and letting it drop. Or—” Holly glanced around his room. “Or, turning a book into a piece of bread and then waiting until you ate it to turn it back into a book.”

“Ah, I see.” Professor Quirrell leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “In that case, I would define the difference as spells that can _only_ harm others, versus those with creative uses.” She watched his light eyes travel to her scar. “Like a killing curse, for instance.”

She felt her scar prickle as if it knew they were discussing it and resisted the urge to run her fingers over the lightning-shaped pattern. _A killing curse._

“The wizarding world has outlawed three spells, the usage of any one of them on another person is enough to receive a life sentence in the prison Azkaban. They are, broadly speaking, the spell to control others, to torture others, and—” he let his sentence dangle, intentionally.

“To kill them,” Holly finished quietly and Professor Quirrell nodded.

“Now, these three Unforgiveable Curses hardly include the entirety of what one would label the Dark Arts. As you pointed out before, there are many spells that champion more than one use—and even some dark spells can be turned to benevolent purposes. So let us ignore the grey area for a moment, Miss Potter, and suppose we are discussing only those spells with no _kind_ purpose.”

Holly wasn’t sure what he wanted her to say. During class, she had scribbled a trite typical answer, about how they were never to be used and—

“It’s pretty much like guns, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry?” Professor Quirrell seemed taken aback. “The metal contraptions muggles use to kill each other?”

Holly nodded. “You’re not supposed to shoot another person either. But people still do.” She thought of one of Dudley’s action movies. “Even the good guys shoot to kill. It’s okay when they’re up against the _bad guys_.” Her hand found the Slytherin crest on her robes. “Who gets to decide who is good and bad in the wizarding world, Professor?”

For a moment, Professor Quirrell didn’t reply. He surveyed Holly with a decidedly blank expression; he opened his mouth, changed his mind, and then stood up so abruptly that Holly started. He crossed to a bookshelf and from the topmost shelf retrieved an aged leather volume with pages stained brown. He returned to his seat, and Holly watched him hesitate, a hand on the book before him.

“It has, and always will be, the winners who decide, Miss Potter. Never is this clearer than in muggle history, in the rise and fall of ancient empires and the birth of modern ones. All laws are subject to change given the right circumstances, even wizarding ones. So I ask you, what should we do to defend ourselves against the Dark Arts?”

On her tongue danced the predictable answers: counter-curses, defensive shields, _running away_. But no amount of defense had been enough to protect the Potters when Lord Voldemort had come knocking. She wondered if they had ever tried to kill him back—

“We should learn how to attack,” Holly replied, and her Professor’s eyes glittered as if he had been waiting for these words since the beginning. He pushed the book toward her and she saw that there was nothing written on the worn leather cover.

“The Headmaster and by extension the Ministry of Magic have expressly forbidden any instruction in the ways of the Dark Arts, and even theoretical studies are reserved only for seventh year NEWT students. It is their belief that limiting knowledge of the issue will reduce the probability of someone sinking into the Dark Arts before they are properly able to defend against the seductive nature of power. But we both know that violence comes to all ages.”

Holly stared at him and then shifted her gaze down to the book before her, his meaning crystal clear. “What happens if someone finds out?” she whispered.

Professor Quirrell did not blink. “I do not care what happens to me. I only care that you can defend yourself when the time comes, and it will come to you, my dear Girl Who Lived.”

His words struck a note she had heard before. “Its cause he’s not really gone, isn’t it?”

At that, Professor Quirrell chuckled and offered a careless shrug. “Who’s to say? But if you’re not interested—”

Holly saw his arm shift as if to take the book back and she acted, snatching the volume from his desk and holding it close against her chest. “I didn’t say that,” she said hastily, and she saw something suspiciously like a laugh in his eyes. “You—this isn’t a trick, is it?”

“I sure hope not, Miss Potter. You now hold my career in the palm of your hands, I ask that you be gentle with it.” He cleared his throat and returned her parchment to the stack, “Come find me if you have any questions. Oh, and I think you’re smart enough to understand what will happen if you’re caught performing anything you might read there.”

Holly swallowed. She slipped the book into her bag, and her stomach churned.

“I’ll see you in class, Miss Potter.”

Holly stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Instead she regarded Professor Quirrell, even as he took out a scarlet inkbottle and began to mark the next student response.

“Yes?” he asked, his gaze flickering back up to her with a touch of impatience.

Holly gritted her teeth. She heard Professor Snape’s advice ring in her ears, never leave a conversation with something left unsaid. “Aren’t you worried, Professor?”

“About?”

“That I’ll—I’ll be corrupted by this book and go dark side or something?”

She must have said something dreadfully amusing because Professor Quirrell began to laugh. He looked up at her, setting his quill back down, a skeptical mirth shining in light blue eyes. “Witches and wizards do not simply _turn dark_ because of something they read.”

“But—”

“However,” he continued, talking over her, “I will be honest with you because from among your classmates, you alone are capable of understanding this. The reason someone falls into darkness has nothing to do with the magic itself and everything to do with their ambition—magic, even dark magic, is means to an end. The most heroic and noble endeavors have committed atrocities in the name of a _Greater Good_.”

“You—you don’t care that I’m Slytherin do you?” Holly breathed.

“On the contrary, Miss Potter, I think this is the best thing that could have ever happened. Now run along, as much as I would love to discuss the finer points of house bureaucracy, I would like to finish going through these assignments today.”

And Holly left, trying not to walk too fast as she headed to the library. She had a book to read.

Against a far dusty bookshelf, she flopped onto the ground, back pressed back against leather volumes, and cracked open the pages of her book and realized it wasn’t a book at all but a loose assortment of pages, some like ripped journal entries, scribbled notes, torn parchment of different sizes, and sketches in charcoal. They fell scattered from the leather as she pulled it back, a mess of scattered paper strewn about her.

_Oh goddamnit—_

This was going to be difficult.

By the time Holly had ensured that she had collected every last stray fragment and returned it to the safety of her bag—which, she was less than happy to admit, was now a complete mess of loose parchment—she had little less than half an hour until dinner.

She thought of nothing else until—finally, in the dead of night, long after the other girls had fallen asleep she emptied her bag across her bedspread. Using her wand for light, she picked up one of the pages and squinted. It was a torn illustrated manuscript, and stared and the words for several minutes before wondering whether some had been misspelled.

> _The wicked witch now seeing all this while_
> 
> _The doubtfull ballaunce equally to sway,_
> 
> _What not by right, she cast to win by guile,_
> 
> _And by her hellish science raisd streightway_
> 
> _A foggy mist, that ouercast the day,_
> 
> _And a dull blast, that breathing on her face,_
> 
> _Dimmed her former beauties shining ray,_
> 
> _And with foule vugly forme did her disgrace:_
> 
> _Then was she faire alone, when none was faire in place.**[1]**_

Holly frowned down at the poem, she didn’t know this _meant._ What was she supposed to do with this? _The wicked witch?_ It was like a character in a fairy tale. And what did _by her hellish science rasid streightway_ mean? Holly re-read the passage again. She flipped over the page and saw written on the back in minuscule writing in the upper left-hand corner the year 1590 penned in walnut ink. She considered the piece again, and then set it down and began to browse through the other pieces at leisure. Some of them were like the first, non-sequiturs like snapshots to a time with knights and kings. Others were more interesting—

> _Consider, the infinite arrogance in presuming that the methodology makes the slightest difference in the desired effect. I tell you my friend; it is in their hubris our beloved society will collapse, for I daresay you recall the decision to end public executions. The children! They cried, so we slaughter them instead behind closed doors as if to mask our deeds from the eyes of God. But he sees all, I tell you! We are but murderous cannibals waiting to devour the weakest among us—death is death, I tell you. Death is death!_

A shiver crawled across Holly’s arms raising Goosebumps. She grabbed another page.

> _I am not a villain but they will smear my name to the ends of the earth until I am but breath dissipating in the wind. But they will not see what they refuse to see. Ignore my bruises, ignore my shattered words, but though I may bend and break I will find a way to put myself back together again. Rebuke me? I spit on your lies. Hypocrites! I am what I am and I am what you made me. In the shadowed night by crescent moon light, I present my anguish and my torment, and upon my knees, a solemn promise to drip from my knife. _

Her eyes ached with tiredness. She had detention with Professor Snape tomorrow! She told herself she could sleep through breakfast. He said to come after lunch. She could even sleep through lunch. Just one more. Just one more. She picked up a paper and something fell, catching her eye. It was just a small torn fragment upon which a short phrase had been scribbled, but she had no trouble reading the words there, her heart thudding in her ears, her exhaustion forgotten.

> _I will destroy as I speak **[2]**_

By the time Holly had gone to bed, light touched the murky green water visible through the dormitory window and Holly had read every single scrap of paper.

* * *

[1] The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser, Book I, 1590

[2] The literal translation of _Avada Kedavra_


End file.
